


Sansa of Dragonstone

by dansunedisco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Childbirth, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Growing Up, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow's Name is Jaehaerys, Justice for Direwolves, Minor Catelyn Tully Stark/Ned Stark, Minor Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Miscommunication, Prophecy, R Plus L Equals J, Rhaegar's A+ parenting, Romance, Salty Teens, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22025545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: The War of the Usurper ends and history sees Rhaegar Targaryen ascend to the Iron Throne. With the rift between north and south growing ever wider in the years that follow, the king seeks to mend it with a practice as old as time: a marriage.When prophecy and expectations clash, can Jon Targaryen and Sansa Stark learn to love with another?-Or: A Salty Teens/Arranged Marriage AU where as much as things change, the wheels of fate in Westeros turn in very familiar ways.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 270
Kudos: 509





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack   
>  [Ride On by Celtic Woman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bLMwHd9F2jM)   
>  [Sleepsong by Secret Garden](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_yQpU_73Dv0)

Lyanna screamed. It was a yawning, guttural battle cry that came from deep within her. The pain was immense, unlike anything she had experienced before. Falls from horses, thwacks from blunted swords, pricks from sewing needles -- none of it compared. All the books she had read and the maester who had raised her had not fully prepared her for such: An iron vice cinching down upon her stomach while another cruel fist gripped hard and twisted her inside. There was no position that lessened her discomfort, no escape. She could only endure. She sucked in a breath as the wave suddenly broke, but she did not relax. Another would come, again and again, until she was done.

“My lady, you must rest,” the midwife urged. She had a bowl of cool water and a cloth at the ready, and tried to use it to dab at Lyanna’s forehead. Lyanna wanted none of the midwife’s tending, and waved it away. The wolf-blood was high and boiling inside her now, the unexpected pain from childbirth turning her angry and snappish.

“You needn’t tell me what I already know,” she groused, and reached out to grip the midwife’s forearm to haul herself from the bed. “But I am tired of lying about. Help me walk the tower. Please.”

The midwife -- whose name was Rina and had been as hastily found as Lyanna’s escape to the tower had been -- dutifully and silently acted as Lyanna’s crutch as she waddled the expanse of the room she had taken to calling her cage. _The Tower of Joy_ , she thought mirthlessly. She determined long ago that whoever named the tower thus had been a complete and utter fool. It was no more than a near-forgotten stronghold in the Prince’s Pass, the red mountains of Dorne to the north; to the south, Skyreach, then Sandstone, then the Summer Sea. She paused at a window to feel the breeze upon her face. _He is out there. He will come back._ The sudden twinge in her heart had little to do with the babe shifting inside of her.

She had been the tower’s prisoner for many moons now. Not once had she felt anything akin to joy or happiness. Rhaegar had left her with a soothing balm of a promise to return, as if the Sword of the Morning’s presence was a suitable substitute. He was not, and Lyanna feared… many things. She feared that Rhaegar would not return. She feared that the path she had decided to walk would meet a terrible end. There was no way to know the outcome, and yet there was no way to undo everything they had done.

She closed her eyes. For a moment, she was transported to the tourney where this had all begun. She could almost see the black and red pavilion the Targaryen camp had raised; the tumbling wave of silver hair over armor studded with shining rubies, and the deep, lavender-colored eyes that had ensnared. _Harrenhal_ , she thought. She had taken up shield and armor and entered the lists, felling three knights a tilt a piece in defense of Howland Reed. She had hoped to restore his honor, using the squires who had treated him so foully as ransom, but had earned the ire from one dragon, and the love of another instead. She thought then of choices. How a simple decision could change, perhaps forever, the course of the river of fate. This river, she was beginning to see, rushed so much faster, so much harsher, than even that of the White Knife flooded with snowmelt. She had had many moons to think about her choices, and the consequences they had wrought. A raven had arrived months ago with ill tidings and the news of Brandon and her father’s deaths. King Aerys had them murdered… and she was sure they had ridden south only because she had disappeared without a word. 

Afterward Rhaegar, too, had left. To beseech the council and seek a tribunal, to unseat his father and take the kingdom in his stead. Repairing the bridge with the Martells, with the Stormlands and the North -- she did not envy the work to come, _if_ the faults and wounds could be mended at all. So far she had no word of his safety, and each day, the deaths of her family and Rhaegar’s doom hung heavily upon her shoulders. Each day, she wondered if her and Rhaegar’s love was not a mistake, as it was a love that seemed to do little but bring ruin to those she held dear. The promises they had made to one another was surely enough to anger the gods, old and the new. Had they forsaken them as well?

She was not given a chance to ponder that question, however. Another contraction swept through her, and she reached blindly for Rina’s hand. “Oh, oh it hurts,” she hissed through clenched teeth, and did not allow Rina to move her back to the bed until the pain had passed.

“The waves do not come quick enough yet,” the midwife said. She pressed here and there upon Lyanna’s swollen belly, and then checked between her legs.

“How soon?” Lyanna asked. “How much longer?”

Rina shifted the blankets back atop Lyanna’s legs. She was young, and not nearly so experienced as Lyanna thought a proper, hardy midwife should be -- but she told the truth, even if it came in starts and spurts. “There is… no telling, my lady. The babe will drop in its own time, and then…”

“And then.” Lyanna rubbed her hand across her stomach, hopeful that all would be well in time.

🐺

Lyanna labored for many hours; so many, in fact, that she had lost count of them. The sun fell behind the Dornish marches. Only the stars that hung clear and bright in the cloudless night could be seen from her window. The sight of them reminded her of a time, not so far gone now, when she had told Rhaegar the tale of the Ice Dragon -- its blue eye pointing north, to Winterfell, to home. A story that had passed from Stark to Stark, perhaps for hundreds, even thousands, of years. He had traded a song for the story. She smiled at the sweet memory.

The babe came when the sun rose once again, and Lyanna pushed with all her might just as the first ray of light broke across Redmount ridge. She sobbed from the relief, knowing it was over, and then harder still for the swell of love she had not at all thought possible at the sight of her child. For a moment, the babe was still and Lyanna’s stomach knotted from more than exhaustion and birthing, but with an encouraging pat upon its bottom, the babe took a suckling breath and shrieked with all its might.

“Oh,” Lyanna breathed, “oh, my love.” She reached out, her eyes misty and tear-filled.

“It’s a boy,” Rina enthused. She placed the babe in Lyanna’s waiting arms. “Oh, he is strong! Do you hear him cry?”

Lyanna could not bring the words forth to reply. She pressed her cheek to her son -- her _son_ \-- and let her heart be filled with love, unknowable until the very moment that it came. She knew that the trouble of birth had not yet passed them, but in this moment, she did not think of it. She brushed her son’s chin with the back of her finger and smiled down at him. “You are perfect,” she whispered, even as he wailed like one of Benjen’s stable cats.

He was black of hair, she saw. Soft and dark like her own. Like a Stark. And his eyes, once he ceased his crying and opened them, were ice blue, the color of winter roses. _Not lavender,_ she thought, with no small amount of relief. If anything were to happen to Rhaegar, to her… her mind whirled with plots of deception and concealment, and hoped it would be enough to see her son through. He was not touched with the blood of the dragon. _Perhaps the gods will spare us after all._

That night, she sang to him. “The Wolf Maid,” “Oh, Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass” and many more she had grown on -- some, even, that were not fit for a babe’s ear and had not been fit for hers when she had heard them. But Lyanna sang despite this, and held her son to her breast. He was strong, and suckled, and cried, and wiggled in her arms and she cried, because she wished so much for the company of her family, for Rhaegar to be here with her.

Sometime in the night, Rina asked for a name. _Visenya for a girl_ , she remembered. _Jaehaerys if it is a boy._ She could almost hear Rhaegar’s voice, speaking of names when she had shared the news with him that she was with child. It had been one of the things he had bade her, right before he had kissed her good-bye. “Jaehaerys,” she murmured. _There was a Jonnel Stark, wasn’t there?_ “And… Jon as a milk name.” Jon shifted in her arms, and she hummed a tune.

🐺

True trouble did not begin until the next night.

“The bleeding has not ceased,” Arthur commented, and the midwife stood back from Lyanna’s bedside with a look of fear.

“We need a Maester,” she replied. “I _told you_ \-- begging your pardon, Ser -- but I…”

Lyanna tried to push up and only then realized how weak she had become. “Can you send for one?” she asked. She was parched and overwarm. “The rookery… there are ravens…”

Arthur looked troubled. “His Grace expressly forbade this, but -- you are certain she will not recover?”

Rina hesitated. “It is childbed fever… my lady is strong but the blood loss weakens the body and allows this scourge to fester. She may yet recover on her own, but… I am not certain…”

Lyanna knew then that she would die. It was a practical realization. It would take too long for a maester to arrive, if the whole garrison of Robert’s army did not march upon them first. Ravens were not infallible, and who knew where loyalties laid in these tumultuous times? She overheard Arthur talking, about sending a bird to Kingsgrave or Nightsong, or even sending a Kingsguard against Rhaegar’s wishes to fetch someone -- but she knew, in her heart, that she would not live to see the outcome. Instead, she prayed to the gods for a chance. To make sure Jon would be taken care of…

“Rina,” she said. The midwife stuttered forward. “Let me hold him…”

Perhaps Jon knew Lyanna needed him to be still, or perhaps he too was tired, but he stayed in her arms without wriggling, without crying. _How long?_ she thought. _How soon?_ The strength in her arms waned every passing hour.

She was deep in the fever when Ned came to her in a dream. “Ned…” she whispered, tears slipping freely from her eyes as he rushed to her side and swept them away from her cheeks. He felt so real; so warm.

“Promise me, Ned… promise me…” She could scarcely speak, barely bring air into her lungs. _I am sorry_. For everything. For Brandon, for father. “Promise me.”

Ned promised, as she knew he would, and all her fear left her. Perhaps it was the Stranger come, or some other god unnamed and unknown, but she felt a hand upon her shoulder and she knew the end had come for her… She wanted desperately to stay, but she knew… she knew she could not. Her babe would be safe. Ned had promised. And that was enough. She looked to the window. Stars dotted the night’s sky through the lancet. _I would see the Ice Dragon_ , she thought. _I would let it see me home…_ She smiled, and closed her eyes.

Darkness met her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The War of the Usurper](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Robert%27s_Rebellion)
> 
> [The Tower of Joy](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Tower_of_joy)
> 
> [Ice Dragon](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Ice_Dragon_\(constellation\))


	2. The Unexpected Betrothal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing of importance ever happened in Winterfell. Not that Sansa could remember… until now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the comments and love so far! I've been sitting on this fic for, literally, two years. I'm really excited to share the rest of it with you.
> 
> I want to give a shoutout to [tacitwhisky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TacitWhisky/pseuds/TacitWhisky) who really helped me work through some pacing issues. Without some honest advice, this would've never seen the light of your computer screen.
> 
> -
> 
> Soundtrack  
> [Butterfly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F10CR9dYtI0)  
> Rhaegar's Song: [Song of Durin - Cover by Peter Hollens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MlqG7B598XI)

Sansa hummed happily. News of the king’s arrival had been all she could scarce think about for the past moon turn. During needlework she’d heard word from both Jeyne and Beth -- who had heard it from Palla the kennelmaster’s daughter -- that his court was presently a day’s ride from Winterfell.

The queen’s wheelhouse was magnificent, they said, and the king was riding with three of his white-cloaked Kingsguard. Though Sansa was excited at the prospect of seeing the queen -- _the queen_ of all the seven kingdoms -- it was the idea of seeing a true knight that sent her stomach aflutter.

“It’s like all the stories,” she had sighed to Jeyne. “Fair princes and a handsome king, and all his knights in white cloaks! Oh, I do wonder why he rides for Winterfell…”

A raven announcing the king’s intentions to ride north had sent everyone in Winterfell scurrying about to make sure the entire castle was set to rights, fit for a king and his royal entourage. Sansa’s lessons had been doubled, known histories reviewed, and two new dresses commissioned. Robb had been made to shave his whiskers and clip his hair; and once their father’s liege lords began to arrive in earnest, Arya had been wrangled into frocks. Her lady mother, always cool and collected, seemed unusually affected by the announcement, too; Sansa had seen her quarreling over Winterfell’s stores with Vayon Poole.

Nothing of importance ever happened in Winterfell. Not that Sansa could remember… until now.

“It’s been seventeen years since the king last visited the North,” Sansa smartly told Lady, who sat primly by the hearth with her forelegs crossed atop the other as her thick coat of fur was brushed by her mistress. Lady was only a direwolf pup, but she was leagues more well-behaved than the rest of her siblings. “He returned my aunt Lyanna’s bones to the crypts after her passing.”

Sansa, who hadn’t yet been born when the event had transpired, couldn’t help but view the king’s actions in a romantic light -- even as she grew, and learned of the Rebellion, her father’s participation, and his subsequent and unexpected pardon.

 _A forbidden union between a prince and a northern lady_ … The thought plucked at Sansa’s heartstrings. Her Aunt Lyanna had long been promised to Robert Baratheon of Storm’s End, but she had run away with the prince... and her disappearance had sent her uncle Brandon and her grandfather to their deaths. It was a tragic romance to be sure. One Lyanna couldn’t have known would tear the royal house and the north apart with an irreparable wound. _Or perhaps… not._

Rumor hung heavily around the royal arrival. It was reported that the king sought to make amends with Sansa’s lord father; that he intended to offer him the position as Hand of the King. 

Everyone knew Jon Connington had been Hand for King Aerys, and then had taken on the mantle for King Rhaegar after Robert’s Rebellion had been squashed. Whispers in recent years claimed he wished to retire to Griffin’s Roost and live out the rest of his good years unburdened from troubles within the kingdom. _They must be true if such notions made it even this far north._

Her hand ceased its brushing of Lady, and she imagined such a rumor coming true with a dreamy sigh. She saw the golden brooch affixed to her father’s tunic as he strolled the massive, winding hallways of the Red Keep -- Winterfell’s colors mingling with the royal black-and-red. He would sit at a table with important men, discussing matters of the realm and earning the confidence of the king himself. It was all so exciting. _For if Father goes south, then I may go too!_

She leaned down and gave Lady a hug around the neck, overcome with emotion. Lady gave her a delicate lick on the hand, understanding the tumultuous feelings of her human as she always did.

“I want to see King’s Landing,” she whispered into Lady’s fur. “Nothing would make me happier.” 

She closed her eyes and wished with all her might. Septa Mordane said it was unladylike to pray for such selfish things, but Sansa hoped the gods would make an exception for her. Just this once.

🐺

The next day, she and all her siblings were lined up in the inner bailey as the king and his court rode through the portcullis.

First came King Rhaegar, his kingsguard carrying the House Targaryen banner of a three-headed dragon on black streaming behind him. The king was regal, even more magnificent than how Sansa had imagined him to be. He wore a red riding overcoat, and a fur-lined cape the color of midnight was secured at his throat with a golden brooch. His bright Targaryen colors stood in stark contrast to the pure white cloaks surrounding him.

Barristan the Bold and his armor was easily recognizable among the guard. He was Bran’s favorite. Her brother was always chattering on about how _fun_ it would be to scale the side of Duskendale’s Dun Fort -- a sentiment Sansa could not agree with, although she found Ser Barristan’s bravery very _bold_ indeed.

Next came the crown prince, who reined up next to the prince and gracefully dismounted. He was silver-haired and lavender of eye; the gold-trimmed overcoat he wore shone brightly even in the gray-tinted overcast of Winterfell. 

_Prince Aegon is just as comely as his father…_ Sansa’s heart beat so fast she thought it would jump right out of her chest. And, as if to further disrupt her composure, the prince graced her with a white, straight-toothed smile.

It was only the teachings of her lady mother and Septa Mordane that kept her from grinning outright in return.

All the castle waited as the queen’s magnificent wheelhouse brought up the rear. It was said she was traveling alone. Princess Rhaenys was with child and unable to attend the royal progress. 

The other prince was squiring under Ser Arthur Dayne. It was well enough, Sansa thought. If all came to be as she dreamed it would, she would meet all the royal family in time. And if she was being honest, Prince Aegon was the prince whom Sansa wanted most to meet.

Queen Elia emerged from her wheelhouse, resplendent and beautiful. She reached out to the prince’s offered arm and descended the steps. She was nearly dwarfed in height next to the prince when her slippered feet touched ground, but her presence, Sansa thought, was more commanding than the king’s.

Introductions were made and courtesies were observed, and it all happened so quickly Sansa barely had time to process everything before it was already over.

Queen Elia was just as regal and poised as Sansa had dreamed, and the king’s men were truly gallant in their gleaming armor and woolen capes. 

_It’s just like all the songs_ , she thought. And when King Rhaegar requested to see the crypts and her father obliged, Sansa sent another plea to the gods. _Let the rumors be true!_

🐺

Sansa was summoned before the king’s feast to the solar where both her lady mother and her lord father waited. Neither of them looked particularly happy and, for a second, Sansa wondered if she had perhaps offended the royal family in some way -- but she swept the thought aside quickly enough. She had been perfect. She was sure of it.

“Sansa,” Catelyn began, “my sweet daughter. Sit. Your father and I have some news.”

“Good news,” her father emphasized, though by the tone of his words Sansa sensed he felt quite the opposite was true. 

She folded her hands primly in her lap as her parents exchanged unreadable glances with one another. Every so often they did that: a silent trade that spoke volumes, a secret language only the two of them spoke. 

It did nothing to bolster Sansa’s confidence about the forthcoming conversation.

“The king would have me become Hand of the King, and I have not refused him,” her father said. His fingers flexed against the arm of his chair. “He wishes to unite our families together as well. As Robb is already promised to another, and you are soon to be of marriageable age--”

Sansa’s heart soared, hardly believing what she was hearing. She had prayed to go south, but she’d hardly thought the gods would grace her with a marriage as well. Septa Mordane warned against giddiness, but she could not help feeling so in the moment. Aegon was not betrothed, she knew, and was the eldest and the heir apparent to all of Westeros -- if she wed him, she would be queen. She would become not merely a lady, but a princess. Their children would inherit a kingdom. It was everything she had ever wanted! Oh, she had had so many dreams of seeing the capital. What would King’s Landing be like? The Red Keep? Baelor’s Sept? Was the throne room as majestic as all the stories? She was so swept up in her whirlwind thoughts that she didn’t fully grasp what her father was telling her until she heard the name of a castle she hadn’t been expecting to hear at all.

“--and you will go to Dragonstone.”

Sansa blinked. She floated down from the clouds to the solar where she sat to find her father looking grimmer than usual. _Dragonstone?_ She must have misheard. “Pardon me, Father. But you said… Dragonstone?”

Catelyn and Ned looked at one another once more, and her mother placed her hand on her father’s forearm. Sansa could tell that her mother was not pleased, the solid steel of Tully composure shining through as she spoke, “Yes, my love. You have been betrothed to King Rhaegar’s second son, Jaehaerys. It is a great honor. You will go to Dragonstone as lady-in-waiting to the king’s ward, Lady Shireen Baratheon, and marry the prince when you come of age.”

 _Prince Jaehaerys?_ All her dreams of life in King’s Landing withered to ash in an instant. Sansa fought hard to keep her chin from trembling despite the welling of tears in her eyes. She was a lady. Ladies did not cry when events didn’t go their way, but this news was so unexpected she wasn’t sure what else to do.

_Why the second son? Why not Aegon?_

The truth of the matter was that Jaehaerys' birth had been one of the biggest scandals in recent history. He was born not from Queen Elia but from Sansa’s own aunt, Lyanna. In fact, a rebellion had brewed to dispose of the Targaryen dynasty as a result of their secret union -- one that had ended in bitter heartbreak, and a hastily legitimized child of the crown.

It was a union that surely would be looked at as an insult on House Stark.

"Sansa?" her father prompted gently, and she realized she had been sitting silently in her thoughts for a long while.

“I understand,” she replied, even as she reeled from elation transformed swiftly into bitter surprise, and another emotion she didn’t yet understand. She was the daughter of a great lord, and being matched to a bastard prince was surely beneath her. How could her father allow such a thing?

She sat, quiet and obedient, as her father explained what was to be: A ship would be secured to take her to Dragonstone Island. She would pack all her possessions, and never again would she return to Winterfell once wed. This, of course, her father did not say, but her mother’s red-rimmed eyes held the truth all the same.

Sansa left her father’s solar with a heavy heart, feeling like she was walking in a dream. _No_ , she amended, _a nightmare_. Long had she wanted marriage; of being the lady of her own castle, with a great love story to match. A hastily-made arrangement to a man she hadn’t met was not that. The tears came, and she hastened to her chambers. Lady, who had waited dutifully outside her father’s solar, loped alongside.

As soon as Sansa was inside her private quarters, she threw herself on her bed. She sobbed into her pillows, and Lady’s fur, and that was where they stayed until her mother came to fetch her.

“Oh, Sansa,” her mother said, going to Sansa’s bedside to stroke her tear-streaked face.

“Mother… did you… did you love father when you were wed?” she asked. Sansa knew the answer, of course, but now that she faced a betrothal to a man she did not know and did not love, she wanted to hear the story once more.

Catelyn smiled. It was small, sad and wistful all the same. “In truth, no -- I did not know him at all, as you well know. Your Uncle Brandon was my betrothed for many years, and your father and I wed after Brandon passed, as is the custom… but I learned to love your father very, very much in the years that followed.” She paused. “I know this is not what you expected, Sansa, but I am sure the prince will treat you kindly... and in time you will learn one another. Take heart in that.”

Honorable was good, Sansa allowed, but in her romantic heart, she wanted a knight. _A true knight._ Someone like Aemon the Dragonknight. Someone who would champion her in all things. Write her poetry and sing her lovely ballads. Someone who was brave and fair. Someone who would love her and cherish her. She wanted a love story like Jonquil and Florian, like Lady Shella and the Rainbow Knight. She knew nothing about Prince Jaehaerys beyond his name and the murky history behind his very existence. He was the Prince of Dragonstone by rights, yes, but no one sang his praises and she very much doubted anyone ever would.

“And what of Lady Shireen?” she asked, changing the subject. “How old is she?”

“She is of an age with you,” her mother said. “A year or two younger, perhaps. I am sure you two will become fast friends. Like sisters.”

Sansa did not mention that she and Arya -- her trueborn sister -- did not get along very well at all, but the answer was pleasing enough. _A sweet sister_ , she thought, _and a best friend_. She sometimes felt akin with Jeyne and little Beth, and now… all she could do was hope she would find the same companionship with Shireen as well. It would be a lonely life at Dragonstone without a friend.

“Would you like me to braid your hair, my love?” Catelyn asked, after a moment.

Sansa wanted to refuse her. _You’re sending me away! I should send you away, too._ But she knew it would pain her mother to have her dismissed. Standards of decorum said it would be three more years before she would marry, and who knew if she would see her mother in that time? And so she sat obediently before her polished looking glass and let her mother gently brush her hair until it shone like copper.

As her hair was affixed in a crown of northern-style braids, some of Sansa’s innate good nature and happiness returned. She resolved to give Prince Jaehaerys a chance. Though he was the second son, she would still be princess of Westeros, and they would have time to grow a love as strong as the songs -- some of the sweetest ballads had started with a tragedy, and a lady always made do.

With lifted spirits, she went with her lady mother to join the feast in the Great Hall.

In an almost cruel turn of fate, however, she was paired to accompany Prince Aegon. Muscle memory bobbed her into a perfectly practiced curtsey even as her cheeks burned red in his presence. She had spent a fortnight on her dress for the very occasion -- it was Tully blue, from the finest bolt of fabric she had received on her name day -- and she bore the compliments he bestowed upon her well.

They entered the hall together, her hand looped through his arm, and when they reached the raised dais where the trestle table was set for the royal family, he took her hand and helped her ascend the stairs. She smiled. “Thank you, my prince.”

“You are most welcome, my lady,” he replied and even went so far as to slide her chair in for her.

The feast went as well as she had expected it would. Everyone was in a lively mood -- even her lord father had thawed since the morning -- and Sansa spent most of the feast talking with Prince Aegon. She was even complimented on her dress by Queen Elia. 

She danced all night long, two turns with the prince and many more with her father’s liege lords and their sons and daughters. Even the king had requested her hand once. If she were bitter, she’d think the gods had deigned to remind her of everything she would never have, but she was having so much fun her sour thoughts could not take root.

The crowning part of the night was when the queen requested a song from King Rhaegar and he indulged his lady wife with a ballad plucked upon his silver harp. 

He sang a song so sweet and mournful even Arya wiped a tear from her eye as the last chord was struck, and Sansa had to think: _If Prince Jaehaerys has one ounce of his father in him, I will fall in love with him at once._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Winterfell](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Winterfell)
> 
> [Palla](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Palla)
> 
> [Lady](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Lady)
> 
> [Barristan Selmy](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Barristan_Selmy)
> 
> \- You might have noticed that I have not chased down all threads of change that would/should come from Rhaegar becoming king. I did this mostly to save my sanity since who has time to rearrange all of GRRM's canon for a what-if? Not I lol. If timeline serves as is, Ned Stark would ~probably~ be executed for his part in the rebellion, a new Targaryen-backed Ward would be installed (or perhaps the north would break off a lot earlier), but for sure none of the Stark children (save maybe Robb) would ever be born. With that said, please allow me my hand-waving explanations. <3
> 
> \- ASOIAF University's tag [over here](https://asoiafuniversity.tumblr.com/search/king%20rhaegar) helped me quite a bit, if you are interested in really digging into how Westeros might've changed with Rhaegar in charge.


	3. The Rising Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside of Wintefell's walls, the spare prince of Westeros treks north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack   
>  [Autumn Forest by Adrian von Ziegler](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v2qOllkxwiw)

“Again.”

Jon dashed the sweat from his brow. His chest was heaving, and his arms burned with fatigue. “Again? You’ve had me in my paces all afternoon."

Ser Arthur Dayne raised his eyebrows. “Tiring of swordsmanship already, my prince? Shall I give you a harp to yield instead?”

“If needs suit, but why would you bring that pain upon your ears?” he said, and quickly brought his sword up in an oft-practiced motion. He readied himself, and Ser Arthur mirrored his stance. “But I know what you’re trying to do, and it will not work.”

Jon tested Arthur with a quick stab. He was parried easily, almost lazily.

“And what, pray, am I trying to do?”

“Push me to distraction.”

“A famed maester once said ‘all profound distraction opens certain doors’.”

“Sometimes I can’t tell--” Jon heaved his sword overhead and brought it down two-handed, driving forward with quick steps; his style matched Ser Arthur’s closely, but the well of experience the Sword of the Morning drew from allowed him to meet all of Jon’s attacks with ease and grace. Surely they looked a strange pair: Jon, sweating and heaving; Arthur, poised and unaffected. “--if you’re a knight or a poet.”

“We tend to dabble in both,” Arthur replied, a wry smile on his face. “But you’ve played your hand, my prince. Now that I know my poetry to be so distracting, I endeavor to employ it on the practice yards to my advantage.”

“Gods spare us all,” Jon said. “You’ll be in want of sparring partners if you do.”

They broke apart.

As the heat of the bout evaporated, so did Jon’s jovial mood. He cast his gaze to the horizon, and the castle that stood proudly on its edge: Winterfell. It was sprawling, steeped in the old ways and ancient history. It picked at something inside of him to see it, a scab or a wound of days long passed; he was a Targaryen in name and by blood, but the cold here in the north called to him, and he longed to walk the walls of his mother’s people.

“Distraction did work,” said Jon, after a long moment. A dark cloud of emotion stormed overhead. “The door is open, and through it I see -- _that_.” He pointed to the far distance; let his hand drop to his side. “I cannot escape it. My banishment.”

“You haven’t been _banished_ , my prince,” said Arthur. “His Grace--”

“--Wants you and I to continue on to the edge of the world and confer with the Lord Commander of Castle Black and his maester for some mysterious reason,” Jon repeated sulkily. A flame of righteousness ignited inside of him. What did Ser Arthur Dayne know of royal bastards and how easily their father’s discarded them? Why was he _here_ , playing at being a knight, when his brother rode alongside the royal retinue? All his life, he had contended with being the second son. The third and very disappointing head of the dragon. Perhaps if he’d had a cruel father with a hard heart and a harder hand, he’d have bore the weight well. But King Rhaegar was not, and did not, and so the apathy he’d been saddled with hurt him all the more. But the tears of a boy had long since dried, and instead had transformed into the anger of a young man. “Winterfell is right there. My _mother’s_ bones are in their crypts. The entire royal court was invited to dine in the halls of the Starks, but I’ve been sent off with _you_ like some errand boy! His Grace won’t even tell me why, but you knew that, didn’t you? I belong _there_. Not here. I have just as much right as him to--”

Pale steel flashed. Jon leaped back, muscle memory bringing his sword arm up to block the blow. The tinny cry of metal-on-metal sung; he hadn’t a moment to recover before Arthur was on him, again and again and again, swipes and swings coming in rapid, varied succession. In a matter of seconds, Jon’s wrists and forearms ached, and his form fell apart like rotted cloth.

Suddenly, his heel caught an upturned root and he hadn’t the strength to recover himself. He landed hard on his back with a pained grunt, sword clattering free from fingers gone weak.

A shadow moved into his line of sight. Jon squinted against it. For a delirious moment, he wondered if Arthur meant to kill him -- but his vision cleared, and all he saw was the Sword of the Morning’s somber face haloed in sunlight. “That’s enough for today, Jon,” he said. “Wash up. We have a ways to go yet.”

Arthur offered his hand, but Jon pushed to his feet on his own. He dusted himself off and re-sheathed his sword. He was unhurt, but his pride stung fiercely.

“Right away, Ser,” he said. If he were merely a squire and not a prince of the seven realms, he was sure he would have earned a wallop for his discourteous tone. Even so, he fled before he could earn further rebuke.

Their makeshift encampment was close to the White Knife itself, and so he made his way down the riverbank to find a semblance of peace and, more to the point, lick his wounds.

Two moons ago, the king had called him and his siblings into his solar. Piles of books and scraps of parchment had covered his massive desk, and many melted candle nubs scattered between it all had spoken of his work late into the night. It had been then that King Rhaegar had told his children of his plan to heal the rift between north and south. "Seventeen years we've suffered dissent," he had said. "It is time to sue for peace and unity."

But what remedy or balm he wished to apply had remained ever elusive, as most of the king’s plans did.

Jon walked and walked, deciding only to stop when he turned back and saw his horse in the diminutive. The river rushed with fresh snowmelt, and was just as cold for it when he dipped his fingers in. Aptly named, the cold waters stabbed at his skin like daggers. It was almost too painful to drink, but it cleared his head as well as any fyrewine. Nevertheless, he was a stinking, sweaty mess despite the northern nip in the air, and so he rolled his shirtsleeves up and scrubbed to his elbows and threw a handful of frigid water over his head.

He met his reflection wavering with the currents. Long face, black of hair, grey of eye. He looked nothing at all like his father, nor his half-brother; his half-sister Rhaenys favored Queen Elia’s looks, but she, too, had the Targaryen eyes.

For once, Jon had thought his father had meant for him to meet his northern family. To stitch the wound The Mad King had wrought by presenting him to the Starks as Lyanna’s son -- as much of a wolf as he was a dragon. Instead, he has been sent on a quest to the Wall with little instruction on what was to be gained there.

“The Lord Commander knows of my interests,” the king had told him, “and the path before us will soon clear.” He’d dropped his hands atop Jon’s shoulders -- they were almost of a height now -- and that had been that. He’d been dismissed, and made to take his leave with Ser Arthur Dayne before they would even reach the winter town.

By the time Jon made it way back to the camp, his temper had cooled. He knew an apology for his acrimony was in order, but going about it was a matter altogether foreign; though he favored none of his father’s looks, it seemed he did have the Targaryen pride in spades.

He found Arthur seated comfortably on the ground, his head tipped back against a tree in rest. At Jon’s approach, he cracked one eye open. “Ah, I see you haven’t drowned in your own reflection.”

He flushed. “I -- spoke out of turn earlier."

“No offense was taken.” Arthur sat forward; he balanced his forearms atop his knees and gave a sigh. “I cannot pretend to understand your heart, Jon. But this I will say: though I was born a Dayne, I was not born the Sword of the Morning. In my life, I have come before many forks in the road, and each path I trod upon led me to where I am now. Had I chosen a different path, I, too, would have lived or died differently -- a hero, or a villain, to be decided by the ink on the pages of history. Do you understand my meaning?”

He joined Arthur at the seat of their small campfire, and quietly turned the words over.

Ser Arthur Dayne had known Jon all his life, and Jon had known him in turn. As the loose ends of the Robert's Rebellion were tied, he had lived as a ward of the Daynes in Starfall until King Rhaegar had decreed his legitimacy -- against, perhaps, all good judgment. Targaryen bastards were known usurpers, and Jon had had to contend with that odious fact, among many others, for all these years. The least of which was the prophecies of the three-headed dragon, the prince that was promised, and a wordless song his father hummed. The burden of untold greatness was a heavy yoke to bear, as was being cast in the mold of someone, or some _thing_ , that went against his very nature. He couldn’t play the harp, or sing, nor did he care for the tedium of the court, dressing prettily and singing sweet words wrapped in double-meanings. He was as blunt as a training sword, and all the lessons of propriety hadn’t dissuaded him from being so. Still, he was a subject of the king _and_ his son; he felt as shackled by his status as his brother Aegon flew free.

“What if the path was already determined for me?” he asked, finally.

Arthur’s lips twitched up into a smile. “Even fathers of farmers and butchers and fishmongers have ideas for their children, but not every son or daughter will fall in line, and the better for it. We are commanded by the king and bound by honor to serve, but you are your own man, on your own path. I am sorry Winterfell alludes us, as well as your mother’s kin, but coming to anger over what you cannot control serves no purpose. Have heart, Jon, and take hold of your destiny -- or let it go.”

He swallowed. Surely no one but Ser Arthur Dayne would dare to say such a thing, but the speaking of it eased the knot of tension that Jon hadn’t known was there, right inside his chest.

The way ahead was unclear, yes; but he resolved to meet the rising road before him.

🐺

Now well-rested and Jon certainly more clear-headed, they packed their gear and rode on. An inn at the next village was promised beyond the winter town, and would be their last chance at a hot meal and a hot bath for the rest of their journey.

A light flurry of snow began to fall as they reached their destination. Two stable boys jogged out to meet them as they dismounted, and they passed the reins over, along with a flip of a coin.

“What are your names?” asked Jon, feeling lordly and strange as the stable boys crowed over the silverpiece between their fingers.

“Ammett,” said one.

“Edder,” said the other.

They both looked an age, and their features were similar enough Jon guessed they were, at the least, cousins.

“I charge you both with taking good care of our horses,” he said. “They deserve a good scrub down with clean hay, and your freshest oats. Can I count on you?”

The boys nodded enthusiastically, and quickly made off to pamper the horses of their newfound patrons.

"Curious," said Arthur.

Jon turned. “What is?”

A flicker of unknown emotion passed across his face before it cleared. "A memory of days long past came to me, but -- no matter. Come, let us secure lodging and remember: we must mind our place.”

The north was rough, even for a battle-hardened knight and a well-trained prince, and tensions were undoubtedly strung tight as King Rhaegar’s arrival loomed upon them all. As such, they had traded their garments for more traditional wear before they’d departed the royal cortege: Arthur wore not the white-cloth cape and mail of his position, but a tunic and trousers of roughspun fabric, with thick leathers instead of armor, and a heavy, fur-lined cape. Jon was dressed similarly. Still, as they entered the inn and Jon saw its patrons, he realized they looked all the more foreign for their attempt at blending in -- they were recently washed, hair and whiskers clipped clean, and they had none of the grizzled look he’d seen along their northerly march, even among the gentlefolk.

Despite the business of an inn residing in servicing strangers, Jon could tell they were neither wanted nor desired by the wide berth they received. He wondered if perhaps word of the bastard prince had reached their ears, but the flash of a fat coin purse cleared the disdain from the innkeeper’s face all the same.

They bought a room to share, and two baths -- with a side of grumbling from the innkeeper’s wife who could not be so easily quelled through payment -- and sat to drink a pint while the tubs were prepared upstairs.

Jon was half-finished with his drink when his tongue loosened enough to ask, “Did my father tell you why we go north?”

“Not in explicit detail, but, yes.”

“And he said--?” he prompted, when the tale did not freely flow forth.

Arthur sighed, long and suffering. “Yes, let me betray _His_ confidence over ale in an innhouse.”

Jon grinned. “‘Twas worth a try.”

They drank in easy company. Eventually, the baths were filled, and they made quick work of themselves in the lukewarm water before retiring for the night.

The room was cramped, their cots no more than an arm’s length away from the other, and Jon felt like he was being made to sleep on lumpy cobblestone instead of a straw-stuffed mattress. Though it was bitingly cold outside, he wished he and Arthur had chosen instead to make camp outside like true wildermen of the north. Even so, sleep quickly pulled him under.

It felt like no time at all had passed before he was next jarred awake.

A pounding of fists rattled against the door to their room, and an urgent shout of, “Fire! Fire! Fire in the stable!” came. Whoever raised the alarm continued on, and as the inn and its occupants were roused, panicked shouting rose to meet the telltale roar of fire outside.

Jon sprung to his feet. He collided with Arthur, both of them clambering over the other to don their winter clothes.

Hastily dressed, they flew down the stairs and into the cold night.

They found the stables aflame. Heat and acrid smoke beat them back as they approached.

As furiously as the fire raged, Jon knew there would be little hope of dousing it. The structure hadn't yet been fully engulfed however, and he knew there may be time yet to save their quarry.

The innkeeper was on his haunches and in hysterics.

Arthur hauled him up by the shoulders. “How many horses are there?”

“Fuck the horses, there’s no use! The whole bloody stable will burn to the ground before sunrise! Gods damn the Wildings--”

“Gather yourself! How many?”

The innkeeper dissolved into moans, and Arthur cast him aside.

A sharp tug at Jon’s sleeve came. It was Edder the stable boy, his face covered in soot. “Milord, there are three mares inside still. Ammett went in to get them.”

Jon’s stomach bottomed out. “How long?”

Edder shook his head. “Dunno.”

A half-formed plan took shape in his mind, but he was already moving. He did not listen to Arthur’s halting commands, nor process the roaring of the flames, or the possibility of burning to death. He simply acted.

🐺

Jon and Arthur rode in bleak silence.

The morning after the fire, the small town at the edge of the kingsroad had given Jon a cloak made from precious ermine. He’d saved two of the horses, and Ammett's life. It had been a bittersweet parting gift: he'd earned gratitude from strangers, and reticence from a friend.

Disappointment lingered in the quiet. Jon, try as he might, did not understand _why._ Arthur was known above all for his good deeds and honor, and Jon’s decision to run into danger’s way seemed something the elder knight would himself do. And yet he could not shake the feeling that he had done something unforgivable instead.

As the day progressed and the silence sat heavier upon Jon's shoulders, he grew restless. He knew he should take this punishment -- for surely this quiet was some lesson the knight wished to impart on him -- but he could not hold his tongue.

"It's been three days."

Nothing.

"Will you not tell me why you give me the coldest shoulder the North has seen since the long winter?"

Arthur did not reply.

Jon shifted in his saddle and changed his tactic. "You would have done the same, wouldn't you? The boy would have perished had I not acted. It was the _right_ thing to do."

"But you could just have well died, Jon. A beam could have fallen and trapped you both, or the smoke incapacitated you so that you couldn't have escaped... but at least the gods would see you warm in that ermine cloak. And I would have had to dig a grave."

A veil lifted. There was a time, many years ago, when Jon had thought Arthur to be his real father. As all young wards were eventually dissuaded of such notions, so was Jon -- but such love was slow to die, it seemed. "You were scared. For me."

There was such silence Jon believed Arthur did not mean to reply. Then, he said: "There is always fear, Jon. Especially as my charge runs brainlessly into any and all danger that comes before him."

"Then... I will endeavor to endanger my life much less from now on."

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

They shared a look.

It wasn't forgiveness, but it was a thaw.

Days passed and the traveling became harder, the cold even colder.

Then, above the trees in the distance, Jon saw it: The Wall. Three hundred leagues wide, and more than twice its length high -- it was a breathtaking monument few in Westeros had the chance to see with their own eyes. Castle Black, formidable and old, was dwarfed by comparison. A sour memory of Aegon once telling him all bastard sons of kings were made to join the Night’s Watch came to mind, but his sense of excitement washed it away.

The clang and shouts of men at work grew louder as they approached. They were met at the gates by a brother in black, and once their business was determined, they were led to the Lord Commander's solar.

Jon caught a glimpse of the giant bear of man who stood inside before Arthur was waved in, and the door was firmly shut in Jon's face.

 _As I should have expected_...

With a sigh, he went to a window. The inner courtyard bustled with action: boys training with swords and arrows, a blacksmith hammering at a piece of metalwork, wheelbarrows piled with firewood traversing it all.

"Fantastic place, isn't it?"

Jon started, realizing he had completely missed the other person in the room. Strange, he had to admit, as the other boy in question was overlarge, but there was a timid energy about him that spoke of a desire to remain unseen.

"It's both as I expected, and not. The Wall is a wonder," he replied. "I'm Jon."

"Well met, Jon. I'm Samwell. Samwell Tarly."

He paused. He knew of Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill who had only one son, and three daughters. There was a question to be asked, but Jon decided he would not be the man to ask it. “Have you been long at Castle Black?”

“If you take two years to mean long then, yes, I suppose I have,” he replied. He looked down at his desk. “Sorry. We don’t get many visitors.”

Jon thought it was silly to apologize for speaking, but a prince always had an audience, even if it was a begrudging one. He looked at the closed door behind him, then back to Samwell. Though Arthur was not predisposed to long-winded niceties before cutting to the quick of a matter, there was no saying how long the meeting would take. They had gone immediately to business upon their arrival, and Jon’s stomach rumbled with hunger.

Samwell -- who insisted Jon call him ‘Sam’, if he so liked -- took Jon to the kitchens. They broke bread, which was half-stale, and ate two bowls of gruel apiece.

“It’s best not to ask what the meat of the day is,” Sam had advised.

They talked freely, and Jon came to know of Samwell Tarly’s story. He felt akin with the boy in a way he hadn’t with anyone else; Sam, too, had had an idea of what he should be foisted on him by an imperious father, and no matter how he’d bathed in aurochs blood, or was beaten and abused, could he change his nature.

“And what is your story, Jon?” asked Sam, after all his telling had been done. “Why do you come to the Wall with the Sword of the Morning?”

“How--?”

“He carries Dawn,” he explained quickly. “I’m not the cleverest Brother there ever was, but I do have eyes. And some wits.”

Before Jon could formulate a response, the door to the kitchen swung inward. 

Two harried stewards rushed in. 

“Thank the gods, we’ve found you,” said one. He cleared his throat. “The Lord Commander requests your presence Your Grace.” 

Jon rose from his seat, and the other steward turned a fierce glare onto Sam. “And have you lost all sense, Tarly?”

As Jon was led away with the first, he heard Sam’s weak, stammering “A prince?” trail behind him.

But Jon should have known he was not retrieved for the deliverance of answers his father had sought. Instead, Jeor Mormont passed to him a summons with a seal of the royal house. He cracked the red wax and read the letter, all the more confused as he went; he read it thrice, hardly comprehending the words contained therein.

“I am _betrothed?_ To a Lady Sansa Stark?” _It must be a mistake._ Had Aegon died? Had the king finally lost his mind? He gave the note to Arthur. _Was this why father sent me to the Wall? Marry, or join the Night's Watch?_ "Did you know?"

The Lord Commander -- perhaps sensing the increasing hysteria in his offices -- clapped a huge paw atop Jon's shoulder. "All princes must marry, or so they say. Congratulations are in order. Word of Lady Sansa's beauty reaches us even this far north."

Jon swallowed, thick and heavy. It seemed he would get what he wanted after all.

Winterfell called his name. For once, he did not want to answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's quote comes from [Julio Cortázar](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Julio_Cort%C3%A1zar): “All profound distraction opens certain doors. You have to allow yourself to be distracted when you are unable to concentrate.”
> 
> [Ser Arthur Dayne](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Arthur_Dayne)
> 
> [The Prince that was Promised](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/The_prince_that_was_promised)
> 
> [The Wall](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Wall)
> 
> [Randyll Tarly](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Randyll_Tarly)


	4. The Two Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stark sisters learn a valuable lesson, and Ned remembers his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say thank you so much to everyone who is reading, leaving kudos, commenting, etc. Really means a lot.
> 
> I know there have been some questions as to why Rhaegar made Jon go to the Wall first. I hope to show the thought process, while revealing some of the plot points, as we go along. But with that said, my depiction of Rhaegar will not be 100% flattering or positive lol. 
> 
> The chapter after this one is where Jon and Sansa FINALLY meet. I split what I had written into two pieces for pacing purposes. It needs a bit of editing, but it should be up tomorrow, if not later tonight. #sorrynotsorry

“I wonder what Prince Jaehaerys is like,” Beth mused.

“What does it matter what he’s like?” asked Jeyne. She paused for dramatic effect, then leaned in to whisper, “Let us wonder what he _looks_ like.”

Beth giggled behind her palm. “Oh, you are wicked, Jeyne.”

“That is quite enough chortling!” Septa Mordane chided. “How many times must I instruct you on proper behavior? Demure, penitent, and _quiet._ ”

Though Sansa hadn’t said a word, nor did she participate in the speculation of her betrothal’s countenance or temperament, the baleful gaze of the septa landed firmly on her -- she was the high lord’s daughter, and it was the duty of her position to guide discussion and discourage idle gossip. Especially when it directly involved her. Normally, she performed her role well, but her curiosity had allowed idle gossip to persist. “Our apologies, Septa Mordane,” she said, lowering her eyes to her dreadfully neglected needlework.

Satisfied, Septa Mordane floated away in a rustle of heavy skirts.

“Demure, penitent and _quiet_ ,” Arya parroted, her voice in a very unflattering mockery of the septa.

To their shame, both Beth and Jeyne snickered at the cruel jest.

“ _Arya,_ ” Sansa said, her sister’s name coming out from between clenched teeth. “Do you want another tongue-lashing from the septa?”

“For once _I_ wasn’t on the receiving end,” her sister replied, “so I really don’t mind.”

Sansa flushed. There were very few people who were able to get under her skin with ease. Arya held that distinction and wielded it too well. She knew her sister was presently attempting to draw her into a verbal battle -- no doubt trying to court Sansa another bout of reproach from the septa -- and so she took a calming breath and ignored her sister.

Or, at least, she tried to.

“For once I agree with Jeyne,” Arya continued. A circle of knitting laid abandoned in her lap. One wouldn’t be able to discern what the youngest Stark daughter was attempting to create by it; perhaps a sock, or a mitten, or a very misshapen scarf. “Aren’t you at all curious what Jaehaerys looks like?”

“I am sure _Prince_ Jaehaerys looks-- just as he should.” Sansa tilted her chin up just so. “And a lady should only care about a husband’s character, besides.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “You say that, but you’ve been mooning over _Prince_ Aegon ever since he rode in on that courser in all his frippery.”

“It _was_ all very grand,” Jeyne said dreamily.

“I have not been mooning over anyone,” said Sansa stiffly. She stabbed her needle through her work. To her consternation, the stitch came out crooked. “The royal family have been nothing but gracious and kind guests of Winterfell, and it is only courteous to respond in kind as their hosts... but you wouldn’t know how to do that, would you?”

Arya all but growled. “Maybe if you weren’t hogging--”

“--Don’t use such a foul word!--”

“--all the attention from everyone _all the time_ I would have a chance--”

“-- _Fat_ chance of that--”

“--to be courteous! But it doesn’t seem like you’ve impressed anyone, since we all know you’re being married off to the bastard prince!”

Sansa gasped. “ _Arya!_ ”

Arya jumped to her feet. Her knitting clattered to the ground. “It’s true and you know it!”

The septa thundered in. “Sansa! Arya! _Girls!_ What is the meaning of all this madness?”

Jeyne and Beth had long ago abandoned their needlework, and had instead clasped hands to draw strength from the other. Arguments between the Stark sisters were well-known, but rarely had they breached so many rules of propriety in one fell swoop: bursts of loud emotion, an insult on a prince, an insult on _Sansa’s honor_. 

Now they’d earned the full ire of their septa. 

It was all too much. With a sharp intake of breath, they burst into tears.

🐺

For the first time in her life, Sansa stood in wait outside of her father’s solar because she was in _trouble._ She had lost her composure. She had _yelled_. She might as well have gone dancing through the mud in the inner bailey, singing like a wild woman, for how _unlike_ herself she had acted.

The only consolation was Arya was here with her, even if Sansa would never admit to that comfort aloud.

“What do you think Septa Mordane told father?”

Sansa feigned great interest in the tapestry against the opposite wall. It was a simple work that depicted a foxhunt.

Arya sighed for what felt like the tenth time in a span of minutes. It was a messy, blustering exhale. “What do you think our punishment will be? Maybe they’ll burn your harp.”

She pressed her lips together.

“Maybe you’ll never, _ever_ be allowed to dance with Prince Aegon again.”

She clenched her hands into her skirts.

“What if they make us apologize to each other in the Great Hall for everyone to see?”

“That would _never_ happen,” she snapped, unable to hold her tongue any longer.

“You’re right. Lady and Nymeria would dance on their hindlegs before Winterfell would see us do that.”

The sisters shared a look.

Sansa wasn’t sure who smiled first, or who began to laugh, but soon they were giggling together, united at last in the idea that their direwolves in such a fashion would indeed be quite ridiculous.

Like that, Sansa’s ire evaporated like fine mist. She did not understand Arya at all, and she doubted she ever would. Her sister was loud, overbearing, and was more like to be found in the stables and scullery than her proper place among the gentlefolk. But she _did_ love her -- even if she had the incredible ability to transform Sansa from a lady into an uncouth creature at the most inopportune moments.

And that is how their lord father found them, shoulders leaned together and laughing.

He tried to look at them with sternness, but Sansa saw only the love at the crinkles of his eyes and not at all the cold Warden of the North.

“What troubles you bring me, daughters mine,” he said. “The septa tells me you’ve made Beth Cassell and Jeyne Poole come to tears.”

“I am at fault,” said Sansa, at the same time Arya jumped in to say, “It was me, Father.”

They looked at one another, rightfully suspicious, then quickly dissolving again into laughter.

The beleaguered Lord of Winterfell sighed. “At least you both choose honesty. Come, let us be done with this lesson.”

“Do we have to?” Arya said.

Sansa did not dare voice her agreement, but she, too, wanted nothing more than to avoid her father’s sharp word.

“It is either I or your lady mother who will be giving this talking to -- and after eighteen years of being on the other end, I believe you will prefer my methods to hers.”

For nearly an hour, their lord father lectured them on courtesy and conduct. Then, he moved on to the benefits of sisterhood, and how they would all be parted from one another. He reminded them of their mother, and how rarely she saw Aunt Lysa, whom she had traveled to visit after the birth of her son, and how that had been many years ago.

“The bonds of blood are more important than you can know,” he said. “In time, you will see how much you will need one another. The lone wolf dies--”

“But the pack survives,” they all said in unison.

Their father's lips twitched, as if fighting off a smile. “Winter is coming, daughters. Know love and warmth now, as best as you can.”

With that, they were dismissed. 

“That wasn’t so bad,” said Arya when they were free from the room.

Sansa shuddered. Never again did she wish to be on the other side of that door. “Speak for yourself,” she sniffed. “But I suppose you _are_ used to getting in trouble and have therefore built a high tolerance to reprimand.”

Arya stuck her tongue out, but the usual heat of their arguments was lacking and if Arya was surprised that Sansa did not launch a reprimand for such an unladylike gesture, she did not show it.

“Good day, _sweet sister_ ,” Arya said, overloud -- no doubt in hopes their lord father would hear the words through the shut door.

“Thank you, _dear Arya_ , and good day to you as well,” Sansa returned in kind. “Let us eat our evening meal together.”

“What a splendid idea. _Let’s_.”

With that, they parted ways; not quite friends, not quite enemies, yet kin all the same.

🐺

On the other side of the door, Ned pinched the bridge of his nose.

Though it seemed his talk of sisterly love had taken root, the yawning distance between his daughters had not yet been mended. It was too much to hope that it would be repaired in an hour’s time. But in time, he knew it would. They would see reason. 

For now, however, he would simply take the tentative truce they had found themselves in. If only for the septa’s sake, and his own sanity.

It was well into evening when Cat came to him. He hadn’t realized how late it had become, the bright afternoon through the window had transformed into a dusty violet hue that spoke of impending nightfall.

“Did I miss the feast?” he asked.

“You could only be so lucky,” she teased.

She plucked the quill from his cramped fingers and set it aside. She then reached for his hand, and began to knead the meat of his palm. He hissed. Hours of reviewing ledgers and old tomes had him in pain like a man twice his age.

“You’re working too hard, Ned,” she murmured. “Robb is ready. Let him take the burden.”

“He’s still a boy, Cat.”

She smiled fondly. “In the eyes of the law, he has reached his majority. And, might I remind you, dear husband, that he is almost in age with you when you went off warring.”

“That was different. Trouble brewed so easily in spring. And after all that happened--” _Lyanna. Father. Brandon._ “--my only choice was to stand as a man and do my duty.”

Her smile waned. “And yet again, you are made to perform your duties.”

Ned retracted his hand from hers and stood. He gathered his wife into his arms and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head. He felt her hesitation, but her arms came around him after a moment. “You know I do not easily leave Winterfell, nor you, or the children. I do not give Sansa’s hand away without reason.”

“I know,” she murmured, “but I remember when you left all those years ago, Ned. We hadn’t had but one day together. And all the ravens that came thereafter, every single whispered rumor that came through Riverrun… I had to be strong, but all I wanted to do was crawl under my blankets and weep.”

His arms tightened. “It won’t be the same.”

“You’re right.” She pulled back. “It will be even more dangerous. The southron court is different, Ned. Your bannermen give you blunt words, but they are _honest_ words. _They_ will speak a lie to your face as if it were truth, and all the while they pull strings behind your back for their own gains. At least in battle you know who your enemy is, for he carries a sword and when he brandishes it, you know what he means to do with it. If what the king says is true…”

She trailed off into silence.

“I'm afraid, Ned. You must play the game smartly,” she pressed on. “Trust no one. I swear on all the gods, old and new, that there will not be a single person in all of King’s Landing who will help you if it does not mean they are furthering their own ambitions. Promise me you will stay safe.”

In all the years he had known his wife, Ned had rarely seen her so shaken, and so adamant. A memory long faded flooded to him; a painful specter of his past. _Promise me, Ned…_ Another woman he had dearly loved had secured a promise from him, and not a single day went by where he did not think of Lyanna, nor how he had failed her.

After Robert’s death on the banks of the Trident, he had fully expected to be beheaded. Cut down, right then and there. When that did not come, he thought he would be thrown into a cold, dark dungeon; made to rot with the bones of stags and lions. The Targaryen reign was not known for their mercy, after all. 

But Rhaegar had pardoned him. 

“I do not spare my hand lightly,” he had said. His ruby-encrusted armor had been cracked and caved in from Robert’s warhammer, but the blood of Ned’s friend lay dried and crusted between the glittering jewels. “But only a Stark can hold the north. Swear your fealty, on your gods and mine, and reclaim your honor and your birthright. Bend the knee, and again you shall rise as Lord Stark of Winterfell.”

Like Torrhen Stark before him, Ned had bent his knee before a dragon. It had been for Lyanna; for the north. _For Cat, and Robb._

Rhaegar’s sword had laid heavy on Ned’s shoulders then, and it was a burden that hadn’t lessened, even after all these years -- for he had known then, just as he did now, that he would be called upon by his king to perform his duty. He also knew he would have to tread lightly.

His greatest regret was that he had, like a fool, let Ser Arthur Dayne take Lyanna’s son to Starfall. 

It would have been treason to steal away the king’s son -- his _nephew_ \-- and after all he had lost, Ned hadn’t the strength to fight yet another war. But he had never forgotten his promise. Just as he had never forgotten how he had failed to keep it. Only now had he begun to set his wrongs to rights, and he prayed to the gods he wasn’t too late. 

He brushed a loose tendril of Cat’s hair behind her ear. She wore it in a thick northern plait today, a Tully-blue ribbon tied at the end. He remembered when he had first laid eyes upon her -- copper-red blazing like fire against the grey-and-white he had known all his life; and how delicately she had shivered in his arms that first night, not yet used to the cold of his hands. A green boy, he’d thought she would wither away like a summer flower in ice.

Now, she bared her teeth; a wolf like the rest of them.

“I will do everything I can to stay safe,” he said, the words tasting like ashes in his mouth. His daughter. His sister. His word. It seemed he was forever giving everything he had to Rhaegar Targaryen.

Cat kissed him on the lips, feather-light. “See that you do, my love.”

If he’d spoken a lie or a truth, he wouldn’t yet know. Not until he faced the pit of vipers that awaited him in the capital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Septa Mordane](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Mordane)
> 
> \- Septa Mordane's "demure, penitent and quiet" is cheekily pulled a bit from [The White Queen's](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_White_Queen_\(novel\)) "Humble and Penitent" motto.
> 
> [The Battle of the Trident](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Battle_of_the_Trident)
> 
> [Torrhen Stark](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Torrhen_Stark)
> 
> The chapter count will probably jump up very soon (in case you were wondering my outline has the kids going past Dragonstone and beyond, and since Jon hasn't even made it to Winterfell... yeah, this might be a long one).


	5. The Lonely Climb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon begins to pick apart a mystery, and Sansa and her prince's first meeting goes about as well as one would expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack   
>  [Game of Thrones & The Wall Ambience](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7hvnaror92U)

In another world, in another life, Jon thought he would have taken the black.

The second day of his stay at Castle Black had found him itching from boredom. Having been given free rein of the grounds and sent off like a child while the Lord Commander and Arthur spoke like men, he’d decided to explore instead of remaining cooped up in the King’s Tower. The iron gates that led to the lands beyond the wall were barred to him, so he set no destination and walked. 

The wormwalks took him to the deserted Shieldhall, an empty barracks, and a decrepit tower with a crumbling stone stairwell he hadn’t dared climb. With nothing else of import or adventure revealing itself, he backtracked to find the underground vault Sam had mentioned the day previous. The library was empty when Jon found it. Strange, he thought, as even in the great library of the Red Keep had at least one maester puttering about -- but then he remembered not everyone had been afforded an education; nor did it seem like the Brothers had much free time to lie about and read.

An unknown tension buzzed throughout the keep, and between every man that Jon passed. He wanted to put his finger on why. No one came to stop him as he searched through the stacks, or as he picked through unsorted scrolls written in a language he didn't understand. Dust motes tickled his nose, years upon years of neglect floating up into the air as he went.

Eventually he lost himself in an old, musty record that recalled Queen Alysanne’s visit, and the subsequent renaming of Snowgate. Then, he began combing through recent histories. As he read, the more troubled he became: Dwindling numbers of the Night's Watch, abandoned holdfasts, smallfolk fleeing south, the Gift and New Gift standing untended and unfarmed as the Wall itself crumbled apart.

By the time he reached the last page, his eyes ached from squinting by candlelight, and he had stayed up so late he’d missed the evening meal. He went to bed hungry, and fell quickly to sleep. 

The third day, he decided to tackle the stairs that switchbacked up the Wall. A Brother offered the elevator as he passed, but he declined. Exercise suited him, he thought, and when his legs started to burn from the ascent, he was too stubborn to admit defeat. But the higher he climbed, the more lonely he felt. No one passed him as he trudged along, one foot in front of the other; his only company the whistling wind and the snow flurries that seemed to stay in constant freefall.

Halfway up, a wild thought began to itch at his neck: _Stay._ He was so dispensable his father had sent him beyond Winterfell without a thought, and Arthur had yet to feed the mystery that ate at Jon every day. No one told him anything. But he could make a difference here. He huffed and puffed, and his temper rose to match the pounding of his blood. If he cast everything he had down, perhaps he would finally find a place to call home: a bastard prince among thieves and the disgraced. It would serve his father right, he thought. The third head of the dragon severing itself from its body and taking up a chargeless black shield.

A blast of wind hit him as he reached the top, the cold knocking the heat from his bones like it had blown out a candle. He shivered and wrapped his cloak tight around his shoulders.

In a vague sense, Jon always knew his marriage would be political, if he were to marry at all. The match would serve the realm, House Targaryen, and the king. If love grew in the cracks of his vows, he would be lucky; but beyond the duty of creating heirs, affection was not a requirement between man and wife.

  
  
  
  


“Ser Arthur Dayne is looking for you, Your Grace.”

Samwell Tarly had come to get him.

In the back of his mind, Jon knew he shouldn’t punish Sam for his being sent on this fetch-errand, but the cold had made him mulish and surly, and so he stayed rooted to the spot where he’d made his vigil. If Arthur couldn’t bother to get Jon himself, then he was perfectly happy to freeze atop the Wall alone.

“You’re nearly at the edge.” Sam cleared his throat. “I don’t like being so close-- but I will collect you, if I must. But I would prefer you to come sensibly over _here_ , as it would be improper of me to mishandle a prince.”

Jon huffed a laugh despite his brooding mood and, damn him, his lips twitched up, too. “I’ll come without complaint. But I have been wondering--” He looked over the edge and down the ice wall. He imagined the drop, and the stop. “There’s nothing to arrest a fall. No netting. No protruding ledge below. If I fell, I’d hope my heart would seize from terror before I reach the end. Has anyone--?”

Sam shuddered. “Not in recent memory. Maester Aemon said hundreds of years ago there used to be wooden platforms the Brothers would lower over that side. There was a whole contingent of us who would rotate the watch, clambering up and down like squirrels.”

Jon’s interest was piqued. He imagined himself scampering along a rickety system of stairs, ropes and pulleys. “What happened to them? The platforms?”

“Oh-- I suppose they fell away in disrepair. It’s been quite a problem in recent years, you see. Useful turning useless. Not enough of us to go around to fix it all. Nineteen castles were raised by the Night’s Watch -- only seventeen were ever manned at the same time, mind you -- but now we only have the three.”

“Shadow Tower, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, and Castle Black,” Jon said. He’d always been fascinated by the idea of the order; an order of kingless men who protected the realm from whomever -- or whatever -- lived in the lands of always winter. “Father has been trying to increase the Night’s Watch’s numbers for years. At least, he’s always on about reopening the Nightfort or settling new lordlings in the holdfasts of the Gift. Doesn’t seem like his efforts have been enough to stem the bleeding.”

“The dungeon purges bring a fair number, but…”

Jon frowned. “They don’t always stay.”

“No. Not everyone takes the vow.” Sam took a step closer to the edge. “There’s two hundred on each end, and we stand six hundred here -- give or take the handful out ranging and… elsewhere. The top of the Wall used to be walked from end to end, but some spots not even the mules from Eastwatch dare cross.”

Jon looked back out to the land beyond the wall. A snippet of a memory niggled at the back of his mind; a single word he hadn’t put any stock into until now. The innkeep at the village had decried _wildings_ as the stables had burned down. He had thought the man would curse king and country at the time, but perhaps the man had spoken true. “The wildlings are coming through, aren’t they? There aren’t enough of you to stop them. That’s why the Gifts looked deserted-- the raids have gotten worse. That’s why my father wanted lower lords installed; to bring their men and hold the north.”

Sam looked down at his feet.

“You can tell me,” Jon said.

“I’ve said more than I should have,” Sam said sullenly. “I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

 _It’s all true, then._ That was enough answer for now. There was something else afoot. He could feel it, but... He fell back into silence. There was very little he could do here and now to help, and he really ought to go and meet Arthur. They were scheduled to leave at first light tomorrow, and he hadn’t packed any of his gear. Procrastination had bit him hard, even as he knew he was putting off the inevitable. Gathering his things meant he was preparing for Winterfell, and the life that waited for him beyond, and Jon wasn’t certain he would ever be ready for that.

“Can I can you a question?” asked Sam, after a while had passed. Though Jon gave no indication of acquiescing to the request, he pressed on: “Why are you here?”

“At the Wall?”

“ _On_ the Wall.”

He opened his mouth to explain, but how could he? He would be complaining, to all people, to a man who would never marry nor have children; a man who had been made to choose between being murdered by his own father, or vows that bound until death itself. His self-imposed solitude seemed very silly all of a sudden. “I came up here to clear my head,” he said lamely.

“What about?”

“Why else does a man come to stand at a ledge with a sharp drop? I've been betrothed. I’m to marry Lady Sansa Stark.”

“Felicitations and good tidings!” Sam’s cheery smile waned as Jon made no movement to thank him, and soon a knowing expression settled on his face. “You aren’t happy about it.”

He almost rolled his eyes. “How could you tell?”

Sam shrugged. “I myself was affected by such a thing when I was still-- well, when I still stood to inherit Horn Hill. My father wanted to match me to Lord Paxter Redwyne’s daughter-- but I pleased Lord Paxter very little as his page, and so here I am.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” Sam gave him a small smile. “Well, I don’t mind listening to your undoubtedly long list of complaints, so-- go ahead. List them off.”

Jon laughed. “Piss off.”

“Alright, then. I can guess instead. You’ve heard she’s ugly.”

“No,” he said. He pressed his lips together. “By all accounts, she’s a fair maiden. But that doesn’t matter to me. Beauty or no -- she could be a simpering fool, or a horrid creature. She’d still be mine to call wife.”

“But what if she’s lovely and kind?”

“They rarely are.”

“That’s a bit unfair, don’t you think? To cast judgment before your acquaintance has been made?”

“You speak as if you know her.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure. Ser Waymar Royce regaled the dining hall of all her accomplishments when he first arrived to Castle Black... like an absolute knob. He’d stopped at Winterfell before he took the black, and wouldn’t shut up about it for _ages_.” He sighed. “You should give Lady Sansa every chance, especially if you’re already matched. I’m sure she is as apprehensive as you.”

 _Or wishing I was Ser Waymar Royce._ A flash of something ignited in Jon’s gut -- a twisting thing he recognized as jealousy. Then, just as quickly as it had come, it melted away and left behind a clarity he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Shame lingered heavily, too, for he hadn't considered the most important perspectives: the one of Lady Sansa. Ladies of Westeros had even less say in who they were to marry than even princes, and surely the eldest daughter of the Warden of the North had expected a better match than him. He couldn't present himself badly without just cause to do so.

His throat worked around a sudden lump. “Truth be told, Sam... there are very few things I am worse at than wooing women. I haven’t-- had much practice saying pretty things.”

“That’s just as well. I’ve heard ladies prefer strong and silent types,” Sam mused. “Little speaking beyond the necessary poem recital seems to do the trick. Mysterious knights and curious ladies with their unbridled passions, always holding back their true feelings until the inevitable-- erm.”

Jon shot him an amused look. “What kinds of books have you been reading?”

🐺

In almost cruel juxtaposition, Prince Jaehaerys’ arrival to Winterfell received little fanfare.

An autumn storm blew in from the north, battering the castle with harsh winds and blanketing the wolfswood and beyond with a fresh layer of white, and word of the prince’s travels did not reach Winterfell’s rookery until he himself made it to the winter town. By then, it was too late to clear the inner bailey of snow, and all the Stark children were made to welcome their cousin in the freezing slush of the yard.

As the minutes passed in wait, Sansa’s mind whirled in anticipation. Not so long ago, she had prayed to the gods to send her south -- and they had answered in the manner of marriage and a seat at Dragonstone Island. She did not dare to pray again, but she _did_ allow herself a small measure of hope.

What she precisely hoped for eluded her, but a hazy image of finally meeting the prince -- _her_ prince -- had been with her for days now: he would be sweet and soft-spoken. He would wear the traditional black-and-red of his House. He would kiss the back of her hand like a gallant knight, but only because she had dared to extend it. He would fall in love with her at first sight, and--

“Nervous?” Robb asked quietly.

The gentle spell of her daydream broke. “What?”

“You’re tugging at your gloves.”

Before she could give her tart reply -- ladies did not fidget, after all -- a Stark man called down from the battlements: “Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen comes with the Sword of the Morning!”

A hush descended, and as declared, under the portcullis clopped two horses. 

Ser Arthur Dayne rode first with the greatsword Dawn strapped to his back. The prince came in close behind.

A murmur swept through the crush.

“He looks like Father,” Robb whispered.

“And me,” Arya said gleefully.

Their mother issued a murmured warning of silence.

 _Mother, Maiden and Crone_ , thought Sansa. She clasped her shaking hands together. In a moment, the soft, shimmery image of the prince from her dreams crystallized into ice-cold reality.

He wore not the Targaryen colors, but practical brown-and-grey; and though she could see his clothes were well-made, they also looked well-traveled. His boots were caked with thick mud, his raven-black hair was coming loose around his narrow face, and, as he made his approach, she saw twigs and bramble burrs tangled in the fur of his cloak. He looked like he slept all his nights under weirwoods. His eyes were the same color she had always imagine the glaciers in the Bay of Ice to be; grey-blue, as hard as flint. He looked nothing at all like the king or his brother. He looked like a northman. He looked _wild._

Nothing at all how she had imagined him, but-- 

“See?” Arya gloated, her face turned so only Sansa could hear the words. “ _Ogling_.”

Her cheeks flushed. Her skin tingled. Arya had had it wrong with Prince Aegon, she thought. She hadn’t felt half as overwhelmed seeing him as she did Jaehaerys.

Nerves rankled, she dipped her fingers into the long sleeve of her fur-lined dress. Though she had checked thrice before, she couldn’t hold back the urge to check again; to ensure that her intended gift hadn’t vanished or fallen into the slushy mud below. _Still there, thank the gods._ She wasn’t sure what she would do if it had fluttered away on the winds.

Since her resolve to marry Prince Jaehaerys had solidified, she had worked diligently on a handkerchief. It was a fine silk, dyed a deep grey. In opposite corners she had stitched both House Stark and House Targaryen sigils to honor and symbolize their union. Though it would have been terribly rude and improper to ask the royal family _directly_ of the prince, she had, over many evening meals and high teas with Queen Elia, learned that Jaehaerys was an accomplished swordsman, so she had included a delicate motif of swords in the background in pale blue. 

If he was anything like King Rhaegar or Prince Aegon, he would love it -- and understand, without her having to declare it from the ramparts, that she viewed their match favorably; that she meant to affirm that very thing before the eyes of his family and hers. He would never have to know she’d cried her eyes red for a sennight after her parents had told her she was to wed him.

Jaehaerys dismounted gracefully, and she watched as he greeted his brother -- the two as different as night and day -- and then the queen. Sansa had wondered what affection, if any, lay between Queen Elia and the prince, but the soft kiss the queen bestowed upon his cheek spoke loudly. She bit her lip.

When the prince finally came before her, Sansa’s breath stuttered in her chest.

 _He is tall_ , she thought. Taller than Robb; almost as tall as her father. So much so that she had to tip her head back to look him in the eyes -- before remembering that ladies and unfamiliar lords did not _make eye contact_ until properly introduced. She lowered her gaze to the safe spot at the hollow of his throat, and dipped into a well-practiced curtsey; not so deep as she would for the king, but respectfully low.

“Brother, may you meet Lady Sansa of House Stark,” Prince Aegon said.

“Lady Sansa,” said Prince Jaehaerys.

 _His voice_ \-- She bit her inner cheek to retain her composure.

“Lady Sansa, may you meet Prince Jaehaerys of House Targaryen.”

“Well-met, my prince,” she said, daring, finally, to meet his eyes.

However inappropriate it was, they both drank each other in. Sansa felt the world around her fall away as she looked into his eyes, her gaze skipping to his lips, his cheeks, his eyebrows. But try as she might, she couldn’t decipher the expression on his face, or the glint in his eyes. Was he happy with the match? Did he find her acceptable?

_Does he believe in love at first sight?_

Suddenly remembering her plan, she reached into her sleeve. She held the handkerchief primly between thumb and forefinger as she had been taught, and twisted her wrist forward to present it. It popped free from her sleeve and fluttered delicately before her. “My prince, please let me bestow my favor upon you.”

“Your favor?” he asked, a heartbeat later.

To her horror, his hand remained at his side.

She saw his fingers twitch. Little by little, the enigmatic expression on his face transformed into confusion.

_Why isn’t he taking it?_

“Yes, Your Grace.” The fabric danced in the wind. She swallowed nervously, but forced herself to remain steadfast. “It has our House sigils on it. I made it myself. It’s purpose is-- you’re supposed to wear it on the pommel of your sword during tourneys.”

Sansa rarely watched her father’s bannermen practice at swords in the yards. As a girl, she had witnessed Jory Cassell deliver a vicious punch to Alyn’s gut. The grimace of pain on Alyn’s face had stayed with her for days afterwards, following her in her nightmares.

 _That_ was how Jaehaerys Targaryen looked at her and her gift now.

Cold realization crept up her spine.

_He doesn’t like me._

Just as she thought she couldn’t take the humiliation any longer, he blessedly, _finally_ , he took the handkerchief. 

But he barely spared it a glance before he crumpled it in his gloved hand, and tucked it within his cloak. Then, prompted by a nudge from Aegon’s elbow, he said, “Thank you, my lady.”

“Your Grace.” She just barely choked the words out, cut by the sharpness of his dismissal. As he continued on to Arya, she dropped her eyes to the hem of her skirt.

He hadn’t even said her name. Her heart thumped in her chest. Her eyes pricked with tears.

As soon as Septa Mordane had rushed into Sansa’s chambers and told her the prince was a league away from the castle, she had changed into her best dress; it was made from grey wool, simple yet elegant. She did not yet have a woman’s fuller figure, but her lady mother had promised it would come with years, and babes. Her prince wouldn’t hold such things against her, she knew, but she’d brushed her hair until it shone, and she’d dabbed a finger of perfumed oil -- a gift from the Queen Herself -- behind each ear all the same.

Even if she hadn’t had the time to prepare to be her _best_ self -- a new dress, an elaborately coiled braid -- she felt she had been more than adequate.

All her life, Sansa had been told she would be a great beauty. Never once, until now, had the thought crossed her mind that she may pale in comparison to the summer flowers of the south; that a northern girl may never please a Targaryen prince.

She watched Jaehaerys crack a smile with her sister and ruffle Bran and Rickon’s hair. Did he mean to mock her? He had spurned her so readily, and yet he attended the rest of her family with care and tenderness.

A spark of indignation flared inside of her. In that moment, she realized he had shown her his true nature -- cruel and cold, and so eager to dismiss her with so little knowledge of her character. And if she displeased him, then so be it.

Duty demanded her to be his wife, yes: but she wouldn’t make it easy on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sansa's Dress](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/355291858105080608/)
> 
> [Paxter Redwyne](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Paxter_Redwyne)
> 
> [Castle Black](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Castle_Black)
> 
> I shameless cribbed the handkerchief idea from my other salty teens 'verse [Wildflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10371549/chapters/22911465). #recycledtropes
> 
> tbh i'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but jonsa have finally met. AND SO THE SALTING BEGINS.


	6. The Other Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's perspective of the meeting is shown, and the Targaryen princes speak on matters of statehood and wooing.

Even from afar, Winterfell loomed large. 

Massive crenelated walls made from grey granite spanned high and wide. Turrets and guard towers bore defensive arrow loops, and the entire structure sat so that from any side an army would have to ride upon her openly; and even if the first wall was breached, there would still be inner walls to wedge in and a mote to cross. From a tactician's perspective, laying siege to her would be folly. 

It took a dragon and a promise of fire and blood to make the North kneel, after all.

Jon had no dragon and only friendly designs. Even so, he could not help the feeling of trepidation creeping up from within as he approached. Not so long ago, he had wanted nothing more than to ride across Winterfell’s drawbridge and under the gates. Now, another future awaited him, and he was unsure.

“Jon?”

He blinked black to the present. Arthur was farther ahead on the road. Though his face was wrapped thoroughly in warm fabrics, his lavender-colored eyes watched Jon with worry.

Unknowingly, he had pulled back on his reins and now lagged behind.

He looked into the distance and the impenetrable castle beyond. Just like Arthur had said, a fork in the road had indeed revealed itself. Even if he feared the outcome ahead, he was already walking the path. There was no use in worrying over what would come. If he truly feared the way, he would have stayed at the Wall. He would have forsaken his birthright. But he hadn’t. He'd made his chouce already. He’d made it by leaving.

Winterfell had called, and he’d answered. And now she waited for him.

He kicked his heels and spurred his horse on.

They secured a runner in the winter town to go ahead and warn of their arrival -- a royal contingent, even if it was only made up of two, needed to be announced. Jon hoped their late coming would mean setting aside protocol for a more practical greeting, that they could sneak into the castle via side gate and their grand entrance could be made at a later time. No such pass was given, however, and they were requested to come in from the larger ceremonial north gate.

Jon, cursing his luck, rode into the inner bailey of his mother’s ancestral home looking like he’d spent a sennight sleeping in the snowdrifts. He scanned the crowd. How Winterfell had managed to gather such a large crowd in the half-hour they’d allotted the runner before they’d continued their march, he didn’t know. He pushed away his embarrassment and _tried_ to look like a true prince at least in composure, if not in attire.

He dismounted his horse. A groom was immediately at his side with hand outstretched, and Jon gave the reins over with a stunned word of thanks.

It was Aegon who marched over to him first.

Jon was covered in dirt and mud, his ermine cloak had turned from pure white to dark grey, and he undoubtedly smelled like a week’s worth of travel on horseback -- a truth confirmed by his brother, who pulled out of their clasping hug with a wrinkled nose. “You _reek_.”

“And you smell like you’ve been bathing in rosemilk,” he responded, the familiar banter putting him mildly at ease. “Have you even deigned to grace the training yard with your sword?”

Aegon thumped him on the back with a grim. “You know the answer to that.”

As he did in looks, Aegon took after their father in most other respects, too: he preferred the joust to the melee, a harp to the sword, and he was as handsome as his hair was silver.

In that moment, Jon couldn’t help but glance at the row of Starks that waited for him. His gaze snapped immediately to the red-haired beauty who could only be his betrothed. 

Despite Sam’s sound encouragement and Jon’s resolve to view the marriage match from the other side, old doubts began to bob to the surface in earnest.

She must be comparing him to Aegon at this very moment, just as the ladies of the royal court did. He was the thorn on the otherwise impeccable Targaryen family rose, after all. He was the spare. The Prince of Summerhall, the heir apparent to nothing but ruins and ashes. Always the second choice.

Aegon followed his line of sight and then gave Jon a wry smile, nothing knowing of the turmoil roiling in his brother’s heart. “Ah, I see you’ve found your Lady Sansa. You’ll like her. Come, let’s say hello to mother, and then you can meet the _other_ side of the family.”

“I didn’t think my arrival would cause such a stir,” he murmured. The inner bailey was packed with the denizens of Winterfell, the Stark family itself front and center, with the royal contingent taking a prominent place to the right.

“You’re Lyanna Stark’s son come home,” Aegon whispered back. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“Not this. You know how shit I am at this.”

“Now isn’t the time for one of your sulky moods.”

“I don’t _sulk--_ ”

“You do. Now, play your part and it will all be over soon.”

Jon did as he was told, guiltily taking a kiss from Queen Elia, who treated him with far more kindness than she had any reason to. She could have given him the barest courtesy, or not acknowledged him at all, but she always made it known that Jon was as much hers as Rhaenys and Aegon, even at the detriment to her own reputation. Looking into her smiling face, shame battered at him.

“The North suits you,” she said. She held his hand loosely and gave it a pat. “Mind your manners, hm?”

As he turned to the Starks, Jon’s mind jumped to protocol as he was bid; but now that he was here, he felt deliriously tired on his feet.

_You’re meeting your mother’s family_ , he thought wildly. All he could do was let muscle memory walk him to his eldest living uncle, even as the river of panic threatened to pull him under.

It shook Jon to the core to see Eddark Stark, the Lord of Winterfell. It was like looking into a reflection of his very own future-- dark hair, dark eyes, northern through and through. Guilt joined the tumult of his nerves, and he wondered if his uncle resented him.

The answer came soon enough and in a very uncharacteristically bold hug. Leather and smoke filled Jon’s nose, and the arms around his shoulders felt like a long-forgotten memory.

They broke apart. Lord Stark squeezed Jon’s shoulders. “Welcome to Winterfell, Prince Jaehaerys,” he said. “Though I know you’ve traveled long and far, you are welcome to break bread, drink ale and sit at my high table in the Great Hall this evening.”

The words were rote, but they were warm and rang true, and his voice was thick with a northern accent.

Jon’s throat felt thick, this tongue heavy; he had a million questions to ask, but none of them were appropriate for the moment. “Thank you, Lord Stark.” The voice that came from him felt so far away, as if someone else were parroting the courtly pleasantries that had been drilled into him as a boy. “I had heard all my life that Northern hospitality was unparalleled, and I am pleased to see it is so. It would be my honor to sit at your table.”

With another clap to his shoulders from Lord Stark, Jon continued down the line. He paid his respects to Lady Catelyn with a deferential kiss to the back of her gloved hand, and he met his cousin Robb who greeted him as if they had long been friends.

“Father tells me you were to the Wall,” said Robb; his handshake was firm, but not overpowering. He had dark auburn hair and eyes the same color as Lady Catelyn's, but he had Lord Stark's nose. “I would hear your journey’s tale tonight, if it please you.”

“It would,” he said, and found he did not need to lie.

The next introduction was Lady Sansa.

Jon steeled himself, the words s _trong and silent_ on loop in his mind, even as his palms began to sweat in his gloves.

He went to stand before her, and her eyes met his for a glancing moment before they flickered down to his throat. Despite his touchstone of strong and silent, he felt his composure slip.

As a boy in Starfall, Jon had once taken a tumble down the main staircase in the Palestone Sword; he had laid sprawled out, lungs seizing, convinced he was going to die a shameful death -- he’d been told countless times that he’d meet his end running up and down the ceremonial tower steps. Lady Ashara had found him heaving on his back, but she’d only brushed his hair back from his forehead with a click of her tongue; her gentle touch and gentler words calmed him enough to take a gasping breath. “You only knocked the breath out of yourself, my little prince,” she had said. That feeling of drowning was a sensation he came to know quite well.

That was how he felt now: knocked senseless by beauty and the knowledge that in a few year’s time, he would take Sansa Stark to wife. 

Up close, he saw that Jeor Mormont had not spoken false, and he understood why Ser Waymar Royce brought stories of her north with him. Copper-red hair, high cheekbones, eyes that reminded him of the glittering ice of the Wall. She was breathtaking. More than beautiful.

And she didn’t like him.

That was the only explanation, surely, to the flush high on her cheeks; the way she avoided his eyes. A pinched, worried expression that meant she found him completely and utterly lacking. How could she not?

Aegon spoke, but his voice sounded far away.

There were many things Jon excelled at: he was a fair shot with the bow-and-arrow, and could hold his own against Arthur when he was concentrating and well-rested; he enjoyed reading, and learning Westeros’ histories, and he often found his escape in the stories of old.

Conversely, there were many things Jon did _not_ excel at: musical acuity; memorizing and reciting poetry. Rhaenys often told him his singing voice rivaled her old tomcat’s yowls. But the worst of his talents, the very worst, was _talking to pretty girls._ One couldn’t give a direct compliment because it was considered crude, but Jon had never been very good at talking around a subject--

Aegon gently cleared his throat.

A handkerchief was in Sansa’s hand. She held it gently in front of her. He saw the dual House sigils stitched with talent in the corners, the sword motif pressed into the grey silk. It was a magnificent piece of work, and only as she explained its purpose did he realize how grandly he had wrong her.

It hadn't been disdain on her face, he realized, but shyness.

So much time had passed without him accepting the token that he knew there was no recovering the grave insult he had parted onto her in front of all her kin, _and_ his. But the longer he waited, the worse the insult would become.

_Take the gift, you idiot. Take it!_

His fingers felt like useless, leaden blocks as he received the favor and tucked it into his furs, against his breast. It was the proper place to put it, wasn’t it? He saw the embarrassed flush crawl up her delicate throat, the quick intake of breath, the glimmer of disappointed tears in her eyes, and he knew he had, yet again, misstepped.

Shame burned in his belly. In that moment, he hated himself, just as she surely hated him now, too.

🐺

“For the hundredth time: you are an idiot,” Aegon said. “You need to apologize.”

Jon scrubbed furiously at the grime under his fingernails. Twice he had had to change out the steaming tub of water for how dirty he had been, and the work still wasn’t yet done. “I know, I know! But what do I say? I made a proper ass of myself. I refused the gift.”

“You didn’t refuse.”

“No. You’re right. I simply took far too long to take it and, by the rules of propriety everyone is so fond of, I insulted the girl in her own home.”

“Why did you hesitate?”

“She’s… very beautiful.” He flushed. “I was stunned, and then… I suppose I was trying to be-- mysterious.”

“Mysterious? Seven Hells, Jon, you looked at her like she was a troll. What bloody purpose did your silence serve?”

He couldn’t very well tell his brother he’d read a _very_ revealing book from Essos in the vaults at the Wall, nor that he’d received and try to use counsel from a Brother of the Night’s Watch on what women preferred. “I tried to do Father’s… _thing_.”

“His ‘ _thing’_?”

“You know.” He tried to do the opposite of emote, pulling his eyebrows down sadly. He pointed to his face. “This.”

Aegon threw his hands up. “Father’s _face_ works because he usually sings a sad song afterwards.”

“I could sing tonight.”

“Ha! Why not? While we’re at it, let me put a minstrel’s hat on you for tonight’s feast. You’ve already proved yourself a fool.”

He barely resisted splashing water at Aegon like a petulant child. “Instead of insulting me, you could counsel me on how to mend the situation.”

“Have I taught you nothing?” He sniffed. “There is time yet to repair your buffoonery. ‘Lady Sansa, I was so enamored by your beauty I could barely comprehend what was happening. Thank you, _thank you_ , for spending a fortnight roughing the tips of your precious fingers to make me such a lovely token.’ There. Try that.”

Jon fixed him with a look. “Prick.”

“If you say that, she might just let you--”

“Don’t say a single word more. The lady you speak of is to be my wife.” He paused for a moment, wondering where this wave of protectiveness had come from. He moved on to lathering soap into his hair with a deep frown.

“Apologies, little brother,” Aegon said, but his self-satisfied smirk betrayed his real feelings on the matter. Then, he sobered. “You do need to fix things, Jon, and quickly. Father is quite adamant about the match binding us to the Starks, and Lord Stark would be well in his rights to break the promise if you keep acting badly.”

“Father talked to you about it?”

A troubled look crossed Aegon’s face. “Yes. About that and a great many other things. Get dressed and we’ll speak plainly.”

Cold dread crept up Jon’s spine. As long as he had known his half-brother, Aegon had been good for a quick laugh and easy spirits, and his seriousness now could only mean ill news. 

He toweled himself off and dressed quickly, eager to rip the plaster from the wound.

The quarters in the guest wing he had been given was more than adequate. The large hearth in his rooms were carved less artistically than the one in his chambers at Dragonstone, but it roared heartily and staved off the blustering cold. 

That was where Aegon sat, and Jon joined him there at the small table once adequately dressed.

“Jon,” started Aegon, “I haven’t always been the best brother to you, but… I should confess now. I _need_ to confess. But you need to know, Seven forgive me, that I never meant to shirk my responsibility, or throw the burden onto your shoulders.”

“Your sentimentality worries me.”

“It should.”

“Spit it out, then.”

“It was I who convinced Father to match you to Lady Sansa.”

It felt like a rug had been ripped out from under his feet. “ _What?”_

“Calm yourself. Be rational.” He tapped his fingers against the table; a nervous habit he’d had since they were boys as if he meant to pluck at an invisible harp. “Starks have ruled the North for thousands of years. Even Aegon the Conquerer knew to leave the northmen to their own devices, and they say a Stark must always be in Winterfell, do they not?”

Aegon’s sentence trailed off, and Jon connected the dots. While he disliked the petty intricacies of politics, he _did_ understand them -- even if he often misstepped during their overly complicated dances, just as he had stumbled earlier today.

“I’m half a Stark, and half a Targaryen. Matching me to Lady Sansa would bridge the gap father caused by my very birth,” he said, “and secure the northern lands in a way you never could.”

“The lower lords may whine and grumble, thinking they had a chance to raise their daughters with you; and the southron lords may laugh, believing Father meant to throw a barb to House Stark. But the japes and the sting will lose their potency in time.”

“And the wolf and dragon will remain strong for another thousand years.” Jon sighed and leaned back into his chair. “Father _had_ intended for it to be you, then.”

Aegon looked away. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I wish I could say I knew what he means to do half the time, but I’m no mind reader. It would be ever so helpful if I was.”

A pregnant pause passed between them.

“Have they gotten worse?” asked Jon. “The dreams?”

He expected a sidestep or a jest, but none came. Instead, Aegon turned to the hearth. Licks of fire danced in his lavender-colored eyes. Shadows played across the planes of his face. He looked like old Valyria, a silver-haired memory of years long ago, and haunted in a way Jon had never before seen him. “There is more trouble afoot than I am allowed to let on, I'm sorry to say.”

“That much I can see. I wish you would let me help you. Let me help the family. _Why_ all this intrigue? Why doesn’t Father trust me with any foreknowledge?”

“Trust you?” Aegon’s mouth lifted into a self-deprecating smile. “He’s protecting you the only way he knows how, and that’s keeping you in the blind until the moment is right. Or, at least, the moment he _believes_ to be right.”

“But protecting me from _what?_ If there is danger, tell him to send me _home_. I know he thinks me useless, but I would better serve by his side-- by _your_ side-- than traipsing the countryside with Ser Arthur Dayne or playing King in the Castle at Dragonstone.”

“Father doesn’t think you’re useless.” He scrubbed a hand wearily through his hair, and the image of profound sadness melted away. “Do you remember when we were boys together, Jon? In King’s Landing? After you came from Starfall?”

“Aye. You hated me. Told me every day I looked like a rat from the sewers.”

He hummed in agreement. “You were the reason Mother cried so much in those early days. I didn’t understand why you had to come live with Rhaenys and I. The Red Keep felt so small.”

Jon’s stomach clenched. “I would have stayed in Dorne for all my days, if Father had let me.”

“I am glad he didn’t,” Aegon said. “And I am glad I saw reason. There is trouble brewing, a great darkness gathering on the horizon. I feel it in my bones, just as I know that we’re stronger when we’re together.”

“Then convince Father to send me home."

Aegon shook his head. "I can't. Dragonstone is your calling, just as the Red Keep is mine. I just need to know--"

"Say the word, and I will be at your side as swift as I am able. No matter where I am.”

Aegon’s mouth lifted into a weak version of his sardonic smile. “If only you had a dragon to ride.”

“Aye, if only.” His stomach twisted; a faded memory itching at the back of his neck. He swallowed. “Who rises against us?”

“An unknown conspirator. They do not use ax and sword, instead using guile and cunning for their ends. They know we will soon be weak. Autumn comes, crops are blighted, and without profit, taxes will wane, and soon the royal coffers will run dry.”

“I hadn’t heard of a blight.”

“Yes, in the Riverlands. We’ve kept it quiet as best we can. Worse yet, Highgarden lost their year of grain-- the last deluge of summer came, they say, and washed it all away.”

He frowned. “What else is there to do?”

“On farming? Grab a hoe and till a field.”

He rolled his eyes. “On the matters of statehood.”

“Not much. Griff wrangled the worst of Father’s prophetic ambitions in submission these last ten-and-seven years, but the grouchy old fool believes he would best serve in the dark.”

“You mean to send him to spy. I thought he would retire to Griffin’s Roost and live out the rest of his winter in peace.”

“You _heard_ he means to. Doesn’t mean he is or will.” Aegon raised his eyebrow. “Again, have I taught you nothing? People rarely say what they mean.”

“Maybe they should. Perhaps that is what Westeros needs.”

“Soon you’ll tell me we don’t need a king and the smallfolk should run themselves.”

Jon gritted his teeth. _Would it be so bad if they did?_ But he held his tongue. Even spoken in jest, it would be considered treason, and he knew better than to speak the words aloud. Besides, what did he know of real hunger? What did he know of true cold? He thought of Ammett and Edder, and the ermine cloak he never should have accepted in thanks for doing a good deed. He was a prince in a warm castle, promised to the daughter of a high lord.

Suddenly, his problems felt very small indeed.

_Take hold of your destiny, or let it go._

There was very little he could do to cure the blight; nor could he build a dam to shore up the rivers and abate the floods. What he could do was trust in Aegon, and his father, and ensure his part in whatever grand plan he played, and played it well. And for that, he needed to woo Lady Sansa and repair the faults he had so easily made.

He sunk into his chair. “I’m ready to wear the minstrel hat, Egg. Tell me how to fix this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Aegon Targaryen](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Aegon_Targaryen_\(son_of_Rhaegar\))


	7. The Advice of Mothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two mothers impart some wisdom. Jon and Sansa have their second meeting.

Robb’s cheek-whiskers were half-shaved when his lady mother came into his chambers and dismissed his valet.

“Am I to start a new trend at the feast tonight, Mother?”

She handed him the straight-blade, her eyebrows raised in challenge. “Go on.”

He took it by the handle and turned to the looking glass with a sigh. It had been her idea to bring a servant in to dress and shave him every morning and before important events. With Father going south to King’s Landing, the transition to Lord of Winterfell in his stead had to be seamless, and she’d insisted it started with such things.

“I know why you’re here, and I won’t do it.” He dragged the sharp edge against his soapy, frothed cheek in a well-practiced stroke. “Unless I’ve misunderstood, and you mean to ask me to pummel him instead. In which case, I gladly accept your request.”

Her reflection in the polished mirror frowned. “It brings me no joy asking this of you, but-- Sansa has locked herself in her chambers. She refused me, your father… even _Arya_ was willing to try, though only the Seven know why. The celebration feast is almost upon us. You must go see to your sister’s wellbeing.”

His stomach sank. Sansa was generally sweet-natured. If she sent away both their parents and refused to ready herself for the feast, she must have been astronomically upset. “Wrangle her from her rooms, you mean.”

“I dearly hope it won’t come to that, but if needs must,” she replied. “It’s very important we rise above and move forward.”

“It doesn’t seem fair that she needs to smile and dance for someone who barely paid her any attention.”

“It’s not that simple. If we broke ties over any little mistake in custom, the world would be in constant turmoil. Performative acts are… _required_ of us now, Robb, even if we do not want to do them.”

“But he made her _cry_ , Mother.”

Her eyes went sad. “Queen Elia promises me it was a simple miscommunication, that the prince is good-hearted at his core and meant no harm by his action-- or, rather, his _inaction_. He rode all the way from the Wall, as you know, and he barely stopped to rest.”

He quickly finished the shave, wiping his face and blade clean with a washrag. He was determined to not soften his feelings: “I can’t believe a prince of Westeros would fumble such an important introduction if he didn’t intend on doing so.” 

He thought of Prince Aegon and the king; how every syllable uttered from their lips seemed calculated to flatter and beguile. Robb was no fool, and not so easily coaxed into submission. If anything, he was angry at himself. He had been _excited_ to meet his cousin. Aegon had spoke of his brother’s prowess with the sword, and the dark mood that clung to his father seemed to lift, ever so slightly, when news of Jaehaerys’ arrival had come upon them. 

Then, he had to watch as he shunned his sister -- and he couldn’t rightly do anything about it. Prince or no, he was a guest, with guest rights, and that meant the beating would have to wait for the training yard.

Furthermore, if Queen Elia spoke truly, and Jaehaerys meant no real harm, then Robb had to think even less of the man: a lord had his duty, as did a prince, and it was their lot in life to perform it good and well. Jaehaerys had decidedly not done so.

“Soon, you will act as Lord of Winterfell,” his mother said. She placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “And sitting in that seat, you will not always have me, your father, or Maester Luwin to provide you with sound counsel. But I am here, and so listen to me now: Concessions _must_ be made, even if you do not want to make them or the compromise comes at the price of your pride. I am not happy with what I saw, but we must give the prince a chance to redeem himself. Prince Jaehaerys and Sansa will wed one day, for the betterment of the entire realm, and she _will_ attend him at the feast tonight. Do your duty, Robb, and go.”

  
  
  


Half an hour later, Robb found himself rapping his knuckles against Sansa’s door. Silence greeted him, and he tried the handle to no avail. “Sansa-- it’s me, Robb. The sensible one in the family.”

Just as he was to give up and tell his lady mother he’d tried -- not his very best, to his shame -- the door cracked open. Sansa’s red-rimmed eyes peeked out at him. “Are you here to call me dramatic?”

“You must give me that, little sister,” he teased, “since you _are_ very dramatic when you want to be.”

No retort came, but she did swing the door open. _Small victories,_ he thought.

They sat together at the table in her outer rooms. She looked miserable in a way Robb had never before seen her-- hair mussed and clothes rumpled, like she’d thrown herself on her end-couch and laid there since they’d been dismissed from the inner bailey.

“I know Mother sent you to fetch me,” she said. Her voice was quiet and resigned. “I know I missed tea with Queen Elia and Tarla was supposed to braid my hair hours ago, but-- I _am_ going to go.”

“And you’re planning on going like that?”

She glanced down at herself. He expected a scowl, or some form of verbal lashing, but none came. Her shoulders lifted in an unladylike shrug. “I might as well.”

Robb, who had known Sansa all her life, had always known her to care, very greatly, about how she conducted herself. Showing up to a formal evening meal with her hair undone and skirts disheveled was not within her nature. 

“Are you ill?” he asked, trying his best to tip-toe around the subject. Blatantancy he reserved for Arya, who tended to be blunter than the edge of a training sword and preferred his directness. “You don’t seem like yourself.”

She frowned. “What does it matter? The prince didn’t seem to care that I wore my best dress, did he? He didn’t even remember my _name_. _And_ he mishandled my favor. I very much doubt he’ll care if I sit next to him, or what I look like when I do.”

Robb scratched at the side of his nose, wondering if perhaps he had miscalculated the reasons for Sansa’s tears and the enormity of how she viewed Jaehaerys’ trespasses. He had to ask himself: Would he have remembered to handle a handkerchief with care after riding however many leagues in the blistering cold? 

“The prince rode a long way from the Wall and was tired,” he said, repeating the reasons and excuses he had been bid to repeat, “and Queen Elia promised Mother of his good-hearted nature.” _He’s merely stupider than an ass, clearly._

Sansa perked up at the mention of the queen, though she was not yet convinced: “But he had to know what he was doing. He barely said six words to me. I counted.”

Robb agreed with her assessment, but the true nature of Jaehaerys Targaryen could not, in truth, be fully determined in a span of five minutes. “Maybe he was-- nervous. Give him a chance to redeem himself. If only because Mother will have my neck if you don’t join us at the high table tonight.”

“Well. If you insist.”

“I do.” He waited a beat. “And if you don’t like him, Grey Wind and I will push him into the pond in the godswood.”

“You can’t!” she chided, scandalized, but the light had returned to her eyes, and he could almost see her resolve become fortified: her back straightened, and her chin tilted up ever-so-slightly as if to better look down her nose at him. 

He would have rolled his eyes, but he supposed a haughty Sansa was better than a sad Sansa.

Job done, he took his leave and hoped very much to never again meddle in the affairs of state and romance.

🐺

Jon tugged at his collar. Left to his own devices, he never would have chosen his current attire: a blood-red undershirt, black trousers, and a sleeveless overcoat emblazoned with the traditional Targaryen dragon in muted gold; the fabric resembled blackened dragonhide scales, and its high edge scratched at his neck. The ensemble was tied neatly together with a belt that served no use but to be ornamental.

Looking at himself in the full-length mirror, he wondered wryly if anyone would question to which House he swore his fealty. All he needed was a half-cape of crushed black velvet and his golden circlet, and he’d be ready to hold proper court. 

He sighed, resigned to his fate of looking and feeling uncomfortable for the rest of the evening. _You said you’d wear the dunce’s hat, didn’t you? So you’d better wear it well._

He combed his fingers through his unruly curls, frowning as the fringe flopped back into his face. He badly needed to trim his hair. He had neglected it in his travels, and it had grown a bit longer than fashionable; and as much faith he had put in Aegon with fashion advice, he did not trust himself _or_ his brother with shears about his ears.

There was a soft knock at the door, and he half-turned thinking Aegon had returned again to torment him further. Instead, he saw Queen Elia.

“May I come in?” she asked.

Surprised, he nodded his agreement.

She entered, examining him shrewdly as she made her approach. “Your brother tells me he gave you a proper tongue-lashing for your poor treatment of Lady Sansa,” she said, softening her harsh words with a kind smile. “Did you find his counsel helpful?”

“He has me wearing his garments and following a strict script whenever I speak to her.”

“I see.” She clicked her tongue. “Well, as they say in Dorne: clothes don’t make the king. I can tell from looking at you that you’re dreadfully uncomfortable wearing what you are -- and that’s what caused such a stir this morning, did it not? Being uncomfortable? Or… were you simply too enamored by Lady Sansa’s beauty?”

Blushing furiously, he asked, “Did Egg tell you that?”

“He didn’t have to. I can spot a Targaryen prince losing his senses from fifteen paces away. It seems you all have a penchant for Stark girls, hm?”

From anyone else, Jon would have bristled at the statement, but Queen Elia wasn’t wrong nor did she mean her words cruelly. His father _had,_ in the eyes of all the kingdom, lost almost everything when he’d crowned Lyanna Stark with a wreath of flowers -- and those choices would always be Jon’s not-so-gentle reminder not to follow suit.

“She is very pretty,” he admitted.

“And more than that, too,” she replied, “but it won’t do to say pretty things to _me_ now, will it?”

“I swear I will try very hard to fix my mistake,” he said. “Though I hope I won’t have to spend the rest of my life making up for poor first impressions.”

“Sometimes a first impression is all we are ever afforded. Let us call ourselves lucky for this second chance.”

He pulled at the edge of his sleeves and rolled his shoulders back, trying not to drown in all the advice he’d been given in such a short span of time. 

He focused his attention on what could be easily remedied: his outward appearance. The queen had said he looked uncomfortable. Though he and Aegon were similar in build, Jon was the taller of the two, and his arms were longer as well. The clothes, while fitting, did not fit _well._ “Do I look ridiculous?”

“Not at all,” the queen replied readily. “It’s just that you simply do not look like yourself.”

He turned back to the mirror. 

“Aegon said what I had ‘should be thrown in the fires’,” he said. Still, he had to agree that while he did not _look_ outwardly bad now, he felt foolish in his borrowed clothes. They weren’t his nor were they _him._ He frowned, and turned sideways to further scrutinize.

“Sometimes it’s best to let Aegon believe he is the best-dressed in all the world, forgetting that all his fashionability was given to him by his poor mother,” she said. “But fear not, we will find you something suitable.”

They worked together. Jon emptied his travel chest and displayed what he had brought north and the queen picked through the rest, selecting what she liked and setting aside what she did not. 

In the end, they settled on a jerkin that laced loosely at the chest and replaced the undershirt with one that had been tailored to him instead. The garments were understated, the fabrics more comfortable. 

Still, it was missing something.

As if reading his thoughts, Queen Elia presented him with a golden brooch made in the likeness of the three-headed Targaryen dragon, their jaws open in a flaming roar. He held it up for further inspection. Each dragon’s eyes displayed a different jewel: emerald, ruby, black diamond.

His gaze flicked to the queen. “It’s us. Rhaenys, Aegon, and... me.”

She took the pin from him and affixed it to his jerkin with practiced fingers. “Yes. My three little dragons.” Once finished, she patted his chest. “There. Now that we have you looking much more like _you_ … let’s further discuss the matter of Lady Sansa.”

He groaned.

“None of that.” Queen Elia laughed. It was a sweet sound, and Jon did love to hear it, as he knew she was never laughing _at_ him -- though she did tweak his chin. “It may not seem like much to you, but you imparted a mortal wound to a young lady today. Remember your basic courtesies. Greet her, use her proper title at all times until she requests you do not -- and even then, never seem altogether _too_ familiar until after you’ve wed. Westeros is built on custom--”

“--And we can’t use something to our advantage if we don’t understand how it works. I know, I know. I will win the night, I swear it. My full attention on her. Lots of compliments.”

“Oh, _Jon._ Forget Aegon's rote words. Don’t rely on false flattery. Lady Sansa is young, but she isn’t simple. She will know whatever you say is not truly your own if it isn't, and she will hate you more for your deception. You have, above all else, a true heart and an adventurous spirit. Show her who you are. Focus on what you know, and find a common ground between you both. Pretend she is... simply a new friend who you wish to better acquaint yourself with. That, I find, is the easiest way.”

 _If only it were that simple._ He thought of Samwell Tarly and their conversations at Castle Black. The ease of it all had rested on the fact that had Sam hadn’t known Jon was a prince at first.

A knock came at the door then, and Winterfell’s master of ceremonies declared himself outside. 

It was time.

Queen Elia went to hold Jon’s hand firmly between hers. “Good luck, my boy.”

Jon didn’t doubt that he’d need it.

🐺

All eight trestle tables in Winterfell’s Great Hall were set; servants milled about, filling tankards of ale and ferrying food as they went. The smell of smoke and spices permeated the air, and the gentle plucking of the bard’s guitar mingled with the din of voices. The feast was a loud and lively affair. 

As the night progressed, the demarcation of Stark and Targaryen down the center aisle bled and crossed into one another as Houses began to mix freely.

Sansa watched Jeyne talk to some Targaryen boy, and Beth become enveloped in a group of girls. They seemed happy: they were talking, and being talked _to._

She took a sip of her watered-down wine.

_If only that could be said for the prince and I…_

It was not for a lack of trying, however.

All night, Prince Jaehaerys had doted on her. He’d tucked her hand against his once she’d offered it, and walked her to the high table. He’d helped her up the steps. He’d drawn back her chair, and even took care to wait for her to rearrange the hem of her skirts before pushing it in behind her -- a trait she had to commend him for, for even gallant Ser Waymar Royce had trapped her for many hours with the edge of the chair post on her skirts. And every time her glass emptied, he made sure to refill it, even if the conventional way would have been to wave over a servant.

It was sweet. Even looking to find fault in his manners, she found none. But what he had in manners, he lacked in lively conversation. Any time she spoke, his full attention beamed down upon her. He seemed _very_ interested in what she had to say. But all young ladies knew young lords did not favor a woman of many or any opinions, and so she did what she had always been taught: turned the conversation back to him. Did not every man desire to be the center of attention? But the prince was singularly odd. No matter how she tried to place the subject on him, he did not let her: What did _she_ like? How did that make _her_ feel?

She should _like_ whatever he liked, and it should make her _feel_ happy to do so. But Prince Jaehaerys didn’t divulge a single thing about himself, and she couldn’t rightly talk about herself now, could she?

It left her feeling strange, and frustrated, and she may have had a _little_ too much of the potent arbor red, even as watered down as it was.

Again, she tried: “Your father has been gracing us with very lovely ballads since he’s come to guest. Do you also sing or play an instrument?”

He shook his head. She watched the black curls bounce against his forehead, and her fingers itched to brush them back so as to better see his eyes -- how could he come to feast in such a state?

She realized then that he had replied to her question, and she gently cleared her throat. “Pardon me, Your Grace?”

“I said that I lack his musical talents.” His lips pulled into a straight line, then relaxed. “And then I asked if you played anything.”

She took another sip from her glass. There was no way to answer the question truthfully without coming across as a braggart: she was highly adept with the high bells, the harp, and the flute. “A few things, Your Grace, but not very well.”

“Nonsense! Our Lady Sansa is _very_ accomplished,” the king said, clearly having overheard their conversation. “My queen tells me you’ve played the bells for her on several lovely occasions.”

“And you’ve completely outdone my husband every time, my dear,” said the queen.

Sansa fixed a small smile on her face. “You are very kind to say so, Your Highness.”

“Indeed, Sansa is very talented--” Lady Catelyn came in, as was her duty. 

Sansa herself could not talk of her abilities in any forthright way, but her mother could, and the conversation between the head of the Crown and the head of Winterfell continued on as their children were released from talking.

Jon leaned in and began to talk low. “I may not be much good at singing or plucking a harp’s string, but -- I do favor songs highly. Would you-- that is, if you’d like -- would you sing or play for me someday?”

There was no teasing in his eyes, only earnestness.

It almost melted her heart to see it, except for the fresh memory of her favor crumpling in his hand; how he had looked at her so coldly before moving on with a smile. Her stomach clenched to remember it and the lightness in her head made her tongue loose. “Perhaps,” she said, equally as quiet as he. “If the halls of Dragonstone please me.”

His brows furrowed together.

She did not delight in his expression in the way she thought she would, but she pushed on. “We should employ a bard when we go to White Harbor. That’s where my Father says from where we are scheduled to sail, and I’m sure there may be one or two to choose from that will be to your liking.”

“To my liking?”

“Yes, of course.” _You and I didn’t get to choose one another_. “At least let us have a pick of them.”

“I see. And that is how I am to tell your mood, then? We install a minstrel for show?” he asked. “If you sing, you’re pleased. If you do not, you’re cross.”

“Exactly, my prince.” She was being dreadfully rude, but she couldn’t stop herself. It was too late to take back her words, and there was something about the red flush crawling up his neck at made her skin tighten. “You’ll get your entertainment either way.”

She saw the hand at his thigh curl into a fist.

“I’m not in want of entertainment now,” he said levelly, “nor does it seem I will require it while in Dragonstone.”

The implication that he found her minstrel enough lingered heavily. 

It was as she thought. He was cruel and mean and only acting kind and attentive because he was being _made_ to, and of course he didn’t care a whit about what she said or felt. She sat up straight and drew her chin up. “It makes me happy to know you’re so easily pleased,” she said, “and willing to take whatever comes your way.”

A flash of emotion crossed his face, and he leaned away from her. She expected him to come back with a barb, but he merely shook his head again and stood. “Excuse me, Lady Sansa." He gave her a crisp bow of his head. "It was an utter pleasure.”

Without another word, he left. 

At once, Sansa felt hot and cold all over. She was embarrassed and ashamed of her words, but it seemed no one had caught wind of their heated exchange. The Stark siblings were seated and talking with an animated Prince Aegon; her parents and the king and queen were still in deep conversation. The Great Hall was as noisy as ever, and cared not for a minor argument at the head table.

What had she been thinking, poking and prodding him so? The haze of the arbor red lifted as the heat in her blood dissipated, and she realized it was she who had acted badly this time around. She'd promised Robb to give the prince a second chance, and she hadn't. She had provoked him instead.

She stood, and barely waited for her Lord Father to excuse her absence before hastily making her way after the prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Robb Stark](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Robb_Stark)
> 
> [Elia Martell](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Elia_Martell)
> 
> [Queen of Love and Beauty](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Queen_of_love_and_beauty)


	8. The Honest Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa debate, talk, and eventually come to an understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say THANK YOU for all your kind comments, suggestions, kudos and general love, etc. You guys are honestly the best, and reading your thoughts really, truly help motivate me to keep at this. I haven't written this much in years. I don't want to jinx myself, but. Yeah. Thank you. <3
> 
> With that said, this chapter is 99.9% Jon and Sansa.

Jon burst out into the courtyard with a messy exhale.

A handful of Stark men were on their rounds outside. They gave him a respectful nod as he passed them, and he quickly schooled his emotions into something less -- _sullen._

An easy change now that he was in the chill of the evening, and the heat boiling under his skin evaporated into nothingness. But running away hadn’t solved any of his problems. Rather, it could lead to more. He’d let his emotions get the better of him, and he’d left the high table without seeking Lord’s Stark permission, as was the custom. He knew he should go back. Throw himself on his knees and try again. 

But he’d already retreated from the battlefield and needled pride kept him from limping back into the hall to receive yet more mordant remarks.

In truth, he was more hurt than angry. All night long his attempts at chivalry were rebuffed or gamely endured. He had attended to Lady Sansa’s every need, hung on to her every word, and tried very hard to discover that common ground Queen Elia had advised him to find. A fruitless endeavor it had turned out to be -- it was impossible to find similar interests when someone was willing to give no opinion on anything at all, and she hadn’t seemed to care for him or anything he had to say, besides.

A mirthless laugh escaped him. Was this to be the rest of his life? Trying and failing to repair the damage he had made in one singular moment?

The great oak-and-iron doors of the great hall were cracked open, and a sliver of bright yellow light spilled out into the dimly lit courtyard. There was laughter inside. Like seventeen years of fraught tension and bad blood had been washed away with levity. If he listened hard enough, he almost believed he could pick out his brother’s voice amongst it all.

_It should be him_ , he thought. Aegon had been wrong. Even if Jon had Stark blood, it was clear who the northerners favored. His cousin Robb had taken a seat away from Jon despite having requested to hear stories from the Wall, and he hadn’t missed the careful look Lady Catelyn had sent him, nor the somber gaze of his uncle. Even in the halls of his mother’s kin, he hadn’t found the home he’d so desperately wanted.

A voice whispered in the back of his mind that his ill reception was his doing -- all the Starks had welcomed him warmly, and he should laud their loyalty to their daughter and sister. It meant, above all else, that he may one day be honored to receive the same when he was no longer a stranger in their home.

But Jon did not want to listen to reason. Not yet.

He aimed his feet in no particular direction in search of a place where he might not so easily be found. Grey granite walls guided the way, and the feast soon faded behind him.

The smithy hut’s smokestack puffed out steady black clouds even as the clang of hammer-on-steel was absent, and eager hounds sniffed at Jon’s hands as he passed the kennels; and while he would gladly have spent time grooming his own horse, the scandal of a prince mucking out the stables in his fine clothing wasn’t worth the distraction.

He continued on, wishing that he’d brought a thick overcoat with him. The piping of the hot springs that kept Winterfell so warm did not extend outside, and the cold nipped at the tips of his ears and his cheeks. Perhaps guided by the want of creature comforts, he came upon a large structure that could only be the castle’s glass gardens.

Most castles as large as Winterfell grew their own vegetables, but Jon could name none other than had such an innovation. Curiosity called him inside.

As he stepped under the glass canopy, it felt like he’d been transported into an entirely different world. The air was warm and humid. Flowers grew wildly from hanging planters above and square plots of soil below; rows and rows of vegetables stretched on, and sprawling vines spilled over wooden containers onto the dirt floor. Crushed rocks were sprinkled down the pathways to prevent mud, and they crunched underfoot as Jon explored. There were exotic fruit trees and bushes, and a squat Dornish apple tree; and it had been ages since he’d last seen a lemon or an orange, but there they were: large and plump and ripe for the picking.

He took a deep breath, marveling at the riot of colors that stuck out even in the faint light and filling his nose with the sweet perfume of flowers and earthy loam. The gardens reminded him of Starfall and of the field of pale moonflowers he had known as a young boy. Lady Ashara had enjoyed tending to the flowers herself, and he’d often trail after her as she clipped and cut.

He reached out to touch the soft petals of a purple dragonsnap, thumb and forefinger smoothing over the silky texture.

“Prince Jaehaerys--”

He whirled around. “Lady Sansa,” he said, startled.

Bright moonlight spilled through the glass ceiling where she stood. Yellow and green spilled across her, staining her grey dress with a bright mosaic pattern that helped lend to the garden’s otherworldly atmosphere.

A faint flush of pink graced her cheeks. She stared at him with lips slightly parted, as if she was shocked that they had run into one another even as it was clear that she had come after him in a hurry -- he saw the quick rise and fall of her chest, and the faint sheen of sweat on her brow he couldn’t yet attribute to their damp environment.

A spike of indignation welled up inside of him at seeing her. Why had she come? To impart more insult? Or had her lady mother trundled her off to make reparations for bad conduct? Surely that was the reason. He wanted to lash out; he wanted to remind her that he _was_ a prince, that Dragonstone would be their home if she liked it or not, and if he wanted her to sing, by rights he could ask her for such things and more -- but he found it impossible to hang on to such angry thoughts in such a beautiful, peaceful place. The more he tried to keep the fire stoked, the slipperier it became. 

The truth of the matter was this: Aegon would have made a fine bridegroom in black and red, but Jon would be the one to stand with her on the dais of the sept and speak their marriage vows under the light of the seven. This was the choice Jon had made when he’d left the Wall. This was the choice he made when he’d sworn to watch over his family. His calling was Winterfell. His calling was Dragonstone. And whether they liked it or not, he and Lady Sansa would be tied to one another for the rest of their lives. They could live as distant companions; only seeking one another out to accomplish the lone goal of heirs and playing the mummer’s farce at court to strengthen their House ties. 

Or he could extend a branch of peace, and they could learn to live with one another; and maybe, just maybe, a semblance of friendship might grow between them like an unexpected weed in a carefully tended garden.

_Consider her feelings_ , he thought. _Find common ground._

“Forgive me--”

“I behaved--”

They both dropped off abruptly. They stared at one another in the ensuing silence, both perhaps shocked at how in-sync and yet out of tune they both could be.

A strange thing happened, then. Jon wasn’t sure, exactly, of what it was -- perhaps the perfume of the flowers made him lightheaded, or the exhaustion from his travels leaned him towards punch-drunk, but he began to smile, and as he did so, Lady Sansa’s expression began to mirror his.

“You’re not cross with me,” she said.

It was an observation, not a question, but he answered if it were one anyway. “No -- and even if I was, I wouldn’t have earned the right to be so.” He wetted his bottom lip. “I behaved very badly. I shouldn’t have goaded you at the feast. Forgive me, Lady Sansa.”

Her eyes widened ever so slightly. “It was nothing--”

“Please,” he interrupted, starting towards her before thinking better of it. He strayed frozen by the tier of dragon flowers; a safe distance away. “I’m dreadfully tired of putting my foot in my mouth and saying or doing things that cause offense I don’t mean to cause. I want us to be honest with one another. Can we do that?”

Her eyes darted to another nearby door and, for a moment, Jon expected her to grab up her skirts and flee. But she did not, and looked at him head-on instead, back straight and proud.

“I will be honest with you as well as I am able,” she said, “as long as you are honest in return.”

Jon squared his shoulders. It felt like he and Lady Sansa were getting ready to play a game of cyvasse or engage in a very unconventional clash of swords; one where he knew she was bringing a well-oiled greatsword against his blunt-edged training weapon.

“I was an ass,” he said, cutting to the quick, “and I never properly thanked you for your gift. If I’m ever permitted to enter the lists of a tourney, I will wear your favor with pride... That’s what I should have said, from the moment we met.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“You were--” His cheeks burned. His heart thumped a steady tattoo; _be honest._ “I thought were displeased. With me.”

A flicker of surprise crossed her face as if caught off-guard that he would ever admit such a thing. “How strange,” she said, after a moment, “for I thought the same thing.”

Slow understanding began to dawn on him. “I believe I mistook your initial reaction to me as-- something else. Dislike or disdain.”

“Or judgment.”

“Aye, maybe so.” He paused. “I come to harsher verdicts when I am-- ill at ease.”

“I can’t imagine how I could cause such apprehension. Unless you mean to say the thought of marriage to me makes you anxious.”

“It has nothing to do with you, or me.” The debate was on, and while he knew he should rein in his notions before he horribly offended Lady Sansa yet again, it was the first conversation he’d had with her that felt _real._ “Doesn’t the very nature of the concept give you pause?"

“Marriage in our station is an eventuality. One which weighs the political benefits of the whole, and not the happiness of the individuals,” she said in a considering tone. “I must confess, my prince, that I-- that I _did_ have several preconceived notions when my lord father and lady mother told me of our betrothal.”

“You must have been very upset to hear it was me and not Aegon who had been named your intended,” he said, trying to keep the bitterness from seeping into his tone.

Her lips pulled into a line. “I promised you honesty, but the truth is unkind. I do not wish to speak of it.”

It felt like a hot stone dropped in his stomach, but he _had_ asked for honesty, and he had to commend her for giving it. Still, he turned away, more than a little miserable for correctly ascertaining her initial thoughts on the matter of their impending union.

She stepped forward. “I find that I no longer hold such thoughts.”

“I’m almost afraid to hear the new.” He tried to laugh. “I can only imagine how marriage fares in your esteem with me as your intended.”

“We could speak on many other subjects, if it would please you. Not every single thought of mine revolves around marriage -- or you, for that matter.”

“I wouldn’t presume to know where your thoughts lie.”

She stood next to him, finally, but turned so that they both faced the flowers that unfurled in bloom in the soil before them. “You seemed very keen to hear all of my opinions tonight. I thought you’d have a full account of my nature by now.”

He did laugh now, a short bark that he tried to quickly stifle. “My brother had said you were a winter’s rose. I see he is quite right: you have your thorns, and how easily you’re able to make me bleed.”

It was a calculated barb; both compliment and prodding jest. He watched as her throat worked, her hands frozen in a tight clasp in front of her. He wished he could see the inner workings of her mind, and he waited patiently for her riposte.

“We have winter roses in the glass garden. They aren’t yet in bloom, but I could show you where they are.” She looked up at him, then away. “For comparison’s sake, of course.”

“I would like that,” he said, wondering at her deflection and her true meaning.

They walked in companionable silence through the rows. The muted sound of Sansa’s skirt swishing and Jon’s rushing blood reverberated heavily in his ears. 

As they arrived, she swept her hand in a subtle gesture towards the carefully-tended bush of roses. As she said, the buds were not yet in bloom except for a handful that were valiantly trying to unfold under the pale light of the moon.

He considered the flowers for a moment, so dark they looked almost black, carefully weighing his next words.

“Perhaps we could travel from Dragonstone Island during the flowering season so I could see them in their true form. After we are wed.”

Her index finger reached out to the flower, carefully minding the hooks and thorns that ran along the stem. “That is very considerate, my prince. I find I would be amenable to traveling.”

“Enough that we may forego the bard?”

Her face snapped to look up at him, mouth parted slightly as if to fling forth another barb -- but she laughed instead, a soft, tinkling sound that reminded him of bells, or gentle chimes. “I am not yet sure.”

He looked away, trying to hide the smile that threatened to crack across his face. Her laugh was progress, however small, and it would not do to gloat over the victory as if the war had been won. “Since we promised honesty with one another-- may I ask you another question?”

“I wouldn’t dare stop you now.”

“You said not every one of your thoughts revolved around marriage,” he said, “yet you seemed very reluctant to share anything else of yourself with me tonight. Why?”

“You imply me cold.”

“I imply the opposite. I’m very much under fire, my lady.”

Her lips twitched up. “Perhaps it’s a northern trait.” She tilted her head to the side. “One which you demonstrated yourself very well today.”

He tried very hard not to let his jaw drop. “How so?”

“You ask me to be honest and reveal myself, yet you haven’t once done the same,” she pointed out. “You ride on Winterfell and greet all my kin with warmth and happiness, and give me none. Then you attend me graciously tonight, yet all your words are empty and only fit to pick me apart. What am I to think?”

“That I was--” He flushed, barely catching the very forward words before they could fly forth. He couldn’t tell her he had been so easily stunned into foolish silence by her beauty he’d attempted to court her with a poor mockery of his own father’s mournful gaze. “Even as inevitable as you say it is, I did not expect to marry. Not yet, not so soon. My father sprung the happy announcement on me with a raven just as I’d arrived at the Wall, and for a fortnight, all I could think of was-- how I was finally coming to Winterfell. That I was finally close enough to visit my mother’s grave. I didn’t expect-- I wasn’t sure…”

She regarded him with curiosity and sadness. “You did not expect me.”

“Not at all.” No, he hadn’t expected such beauty; a burning flame in a sea of grey and white and cold. He hadn’t expected her to treat him with kindness, declaring herself before him with a token that symbolized their coming together. He had misjudged her terribly from the very beginning; even now, he could see she was capable of the kind of bravery he didn’t yet possess.

“How disappointed you must have been.”

“Disappointed--?” He hung his head. “Lady Sansa, what must I do to earn your favor?”

He realized immediately his blunder, his very poor choice of words.

“I’ve already given it,” she said stiffly.

He could see her armor snap back on, and he cursed internally. “I didn’t mean--”

“We should go back to the Great Hall,” she said, the warmth of her tone all but gone. “We’ve both been away far too long to be proper.”

He stared at her as the realization hit. “You came on your own.”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“I had meant to atone for my poor words at the feast, but I’m beginning to see I should wait to repent so that I may get _all_ my shots in before confessing.” He saw blazing coldness in her eyes. “And you are so right, Your Grace: marriage and love were often the subjects of my dreams. I’ve always loved stories and songs, tales of noble, gallant knights; and ladies seeing a world outside of what they’ve always known. How lucky am I? All my dreams are coming true.”

It had been going so well, but now she had thrown her greatsword to the ground and had instead produced an assassin's blade; the cutting drew deep across flesh, muscle and bone. 

But he knew it was no use to fight back in this way, going around and around in circles as they were, jabbing at one another and throwing salt in bleeding wounds to exact useless pain.

He could see she had his measure. She had taken it in only a few hours, it seemed, and picked so easily at the scabs a man in his position would have -- a bastard, a second son, a prince who would never inherit anything but be forever manacled to duty -- and for the first time, he saw her side; like sunlight coming up from behind the horizon, he understood her fears, so similar and yet so different from his own.

Like Winterfell’s walls, she was impenetrable; laying siege to her would be unwise and impossible, and no matter how strong he believed he was, he would never be able to withstand the torrent of arrows she would rain down upon him every time he tried to rush her.

Just as any smart commander would do, he decided to surrender before it was too late; to throw down his weapon and prostrate himself before her. Let her do with him what she would.

“Sansa,” he said, and he saw the way her eyes widened at his use of her name, no added title, and he presumed to push further by stepping in close; let her be the one to give him the killing blow, if she must. “I know I am not the man that you wished for, but I swear… I _swear_ on all the gods, here and now, that I will fight for the rest of my life to be a worthy man to you. I am not a knight from the stories, or a prince from your dreams, but I am flesh and bone, and I will try to be someone who will make you happy.”

Her lips parted and her eyebrows furrowed together, and he dared to touch her hand. Her fingers curled against his, her skin burning against his.

“I asked for us to be honest with one another,” he said, “and I see now that I had blundered so incredibly from the first that it may take a long time for you to see who I am--”

“Your Grace--”

“For as long as I can remember, I’ve been called the Prince of Summerhall. The court in King’s Landing whispered behind my back, and some even scorned me to my face. It’s never been in my nature to be cruel and callous in return, but their intended goal was met: I became aware of my poor position, and my unwanted place in this world. I was wary. Tired. _Angry._ I’ve waited my entire life for someone to accept me for more than my title. To love me beyond the name I bear only by the grace of my father’s quill and ink and wax seal. I did not shun you on purpose, I swear it, and if I could turn back time and give you all the proper courtesies, I would -- and more.”

🐺

A tear trembled on Sansa’s lower lash. As she tried to blink it away, it burst and spilled over to slip down her cheek. The prince’s finger darted out, dashing the wetness away. His touch was so familiar and so foreign that her head swam and her heart ached with it.

She felt like she was being pulled in opposite directions, but the side of her that begged compassion won out in the end.

If he meant to abuse her kindness or if he did not speak true, then she had been properly fooled.

“We’ve both wronged each other,” she said. She remembered her tears after her parents had told the news of her betrothal; all the nights she had sobbed into her pillows, and the days she had spent mournful and melancholy, fingers working separately from her heart as the handkerchief had come together. She remembered throwing herself onto her bed after their initial meeting, so sure of his disappointment with her the visceral pain had been so unlike anything she’d ever felt.

Because she _had_ wanted him to like her, after all. There was no use in denying that truth. Even if she did not understand him, or know him, the little piece of her that wanted always to be accepted, and please others, had been scorned at his apparent lack of interest.

But that hadn’t been it at all.

"We could start anew," she suggested. "This time as-- friends."

"Friends," he agreed.

The prince’s skin felt cool against hers, and she dared to bring his hand up to her cheek, unsure of what else to say, or how else to proceed.

A new tension pulled at her, and for a moment she dreamed of turning her face and pressing her lips against his knuckles like a lord would do unto his lady, but the crunch of gravel and a loud bark of laughter outside the glass gardens shattered the moment.

It was a group of her father’s men on patrol. They never checked the gardens, but--

They pulled quickly away from one another, and Sansa realized then how close they had come to stand. Still, their fingers were intertwined; and when he let go, the shock of the break made her cheeks flush.

“We should get back,” she said calmly, even as a nervous shiver crawled across her skin. “You should leave the gardens first and head straight for the Great Hall. It’s best we aren’t seen walking together unattended.”

“As my lady commands,” he said, but there was a lightness to his voice and a teasing nature that pleased Sansa greatly, even if she couldn’t quite place why.

They regarded one another for a long moment as if they hadn’t just agreed to make haste back to the hall, but the spell did break and the prince took his leave.

Now very much alone in the gardens, Sansa felt like her legs were fit to collapse under her. The night had turned in such a way that left her breathless and confused. She had acted so unlike herself.

She had chased after the prince, skirted around her father’s men so as not to rouse suspicion like she was on some secret knightly mission, and worse yet -- she had left _actually_ left the feast. And then held the prince’s hand! She stifled a laugh against her fingers, wondering when she had become so adventurous.

She went to lean against a nearby pillar and pressed her palm against her chest. While she did not fully understand Prince Jaehaerys, nor his true motivations, she was beginning to ascertain his character -- and, despite herself, was beginning to believe it could be quite lovely indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Cyvasse](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Cyvasse)
> 
> -
> 
> and with that, the regency era of bad communication has come to an end. but fear not, friends, the salt ain't entirely over yet. ;)
> 
> i will say, however, that this was a super difficult chapter to write for me for a few reasons. in general, i dislike miscommunication being the ENTIRE platform on which conflict stands, but finding a ~plausible~ way for these kids to talk frankly in this asoiaf world was not cool. also, trying to balance jon and sansa's previous hurt/natural tendencies while still pushing them towards a resolution was super not cool either.
> 
> either way, i hope you liked it. there won't be much left of winterfell after this. let me know what you think <3

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me at [my tumblr](https://jonnsansa.tumblr.com/) if you like! :)


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